Insomnia...

What should have been a simple bedtime around 1:30am last night turned into a pitched battle between Hypnos, the God of sleep, and myself. See, my Insomnia, which I thought I had vanquished a few months backs with a heavy dose of Ambien and early morning exercise, launched a Tet Offensive on my circadian rhythms, and by 2:45am I found myself counting the spots on the ceiling while attempting to read Do You Speak American? with the hope that it would lull me into Dreamland.

Around 4am, I admitted defeat, rolled out of bed and hopped into the Hybrid. Some smokes, my iPod, and twenty minutes later, I was winding up past Skirball and onto Mulholland Drive, if for nothing more than the simple fact that I was bored senseless. Now, having seen both Mulholland Drive and Cursed in the last few weeks, and considering there was some intense fog at points, I was a bit cautious on the turns. After all, I didn't want to end out like some anecdote in Less Than Zero, just another car flying around a bend too fast, finding myself weightless momentarily, before plunging through the roof of some house a hundred feet below. Nor did I want to hit a werewolf or smash into a limo, ending out in a David Lynch film where I discover that I was already dead.

So I took it easy, enjoyed the drive, and the fact that I was probably the only person in Los Angeles up at that hour who didn't have methamphetamines running through their system.

And then, right before Beverly Glen...red and blue lights behind me. I pull over, as much as anyone can pull over, meaning I pulled over into someone's driveway. Seconds later, I'm out of the car, explaining to the officer why I was not speeding.

Let me say that again.

Why I Was Not Speeding.

Apparently, as I was soon informed, the tell tale sign of a drunk driver is that he / she "takes it slow", especially around "sharp turns" and "windy roads." Gone are the days of high speed chases and two lane races at five a.m. with a 40 of Mickey's between the knees and Ride the Lightning at full blast. These days, potential DUI's come in the form of a spotless Hybrid with The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy on AudioBook, a pile of screenplays in the back seat, and speeds 5mph below the speed limit through banks of fog.

Call me crazy, but somehow, the thought of a drunk driver on Mulholland at 4:30am, being "overly cautious" and taking turns at 20mph strikes me as slightly less of a concern than the average asshole I've encountered on that God-less stretch of pavement, tailgating me at three in the afternoon and going fifty around blind turns while talking on his cell phone.

/end rant
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On the To-Do List...

Places I have been:



Places I want to go to:


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Sell Out!

When the idea is so bad it makes you cringe, but the job pays fairly well, do you take it?

That's the moral dilemma I'm facing now. On the one hand, the payday isn't bad [really good by standards outside Hollywood]. On the other hand, the idea is so flawed to begin with, that it amazes me that the person who thought it up wasn't shot and fed to a pack of wild dogs.

I'm such a whore that I'll probably take the job. How can I stand the reflection I see in the mirror?

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Don't buy stock in tMobile

Paris Hilton has been hacked!

I still think it's, like, a total violation of privacy, mainly because my number wasn't on there. Now watch her Per Movie Quote quadruple.

*sigh*

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Hunter S. Thompson 1937 - 2005

As is being reported all over the news, Hunter S. Thompson has apparently taken his life at the early age of 67.

Love him, Loathe him, Fear him, or Agree with him, it's impossible for any intelligent person to deny that in a world of carbon copy clones, he was a true original.

Here's hoping heaven has a sense of humor. I have a feeling the Big Bar in the Sky is going to be closing much later than usual from now on.

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Power Lunch

Drinks at the Chateau Marmont for a possible assignment where I totally stuck out like a Fart in Church.

I think I appeared too desperate eager.

Note to self: cultivate EITHER the neurotic writer image OR the hip uber-geek. That grey zone between the two is just plain weird.

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Things to do in Los Angeles

Someone asked me today: What Is There To Do In Los Angeles? I admit, when I first got here off the bus, er...101 Freeway, Los Angeles was over whelming. Not just big...but BIG. I've travelled extensively through out the world, and let me tell you, going from Santa Clarita way up North to Long Beach, way down south...you might as well be going from the The Shire to the Crack of Doom in Mordor.

And that's not to say I don't like Long Beach.

The truth is, there's like, infinity things to do in Los Angeles. When I emerge from my cave, these are some of the things I do, or want to do, in no discernible order:

• Rollerblading from El Segundo to Hermosa Beach and back again.
• Visiting the amazing Getty Museum. I try to do this once a month.
• Take your sweetheart out to The Hollywood Bowl. I caught The Lord of the RingsSymphony in 6 movements and it was a blast.
• Venture into Downtown in search of rags in The Fashion District.
• Chinatown. Though it's only really fun for an hour.
• Geek out and be proud at The California Science Center.
• As big a movie nerd as I am? Go catch a screening of some movie you've never hear of at the Egyptian Theatre.
• Managed to find the last single girl in L.A.? A brisk stroll through the Descanso Gardens will seal the deal.
• Like to drink and jog? Join up with the Southern California Hash House Harriers. It'll be the best time you won't remember.
• Like Turtle Racing? Head over to Brennans Pub on Thursday. It's beyond bizzare.
• If you're an unabashed Uber-Nerd then you shouldn't be afraid to take your friends to Medieval Times and reenact The Cable Guy! [I haven't been to this one, but it's on the To Do List™ four places above Get Another Girlfriend]
• And while you're at it, make it a day and visit The Happiest Fucking Place on Earth.
• Or if you want some great seafood, some cheap beer, and a place where the Macarena is still done, head over to the San Pedro Fish Market.
• Want to channel the creativity of Jim Morrison's spirit? Have a power lunch with your hip entourage at Chateau Marmon.
• Want to get the eff out of L.A.? If you like car camping, I reccomend a 5 hour drive to June Lake and the surrounding areas. Or bring the lotion for Death Valley. Or the always eerie Salton Sea is just a hop skip and jump to the south-east.

This is like, 1/1000th of all the cool schtuff that's capable of being done in L.A. I'd post more, but frankly, I'm still struggling to get through this list.

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done, Done, and DONE!

Well, not exactly.

The first draft of the Horror Script with all the relevant suggestions incorporated into it like some paint-by-numbers Mona Lisa has been officially turned in. The Agents, Manager, Lawyer, and various Producrs, all have it in their pile to read over the weekend. I have a pile of DVD's from Netflix to get through, some major cleaning that needs to be done, and it's looking like clear skies in West L.A. so I may just have to go for a bike ride.

I think I deserve a little bit of fun.

In other news, the fucktards at the MPAA are sure doing their best to appear as Orwellian as possible.




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"Wow 'em in the end..."

So I saw Boogeyman the other day. As an avid fan of horror, and a horror writer myself, I always pay super-close attention to the film, but not at the expense of missing the "experience" that most of the audience gets. After all, we're writing for an audience, not just ourselves. And I must say: this film hooked me from the beginning. I jumped, I screamed, I even wanted to cover my eyes...but I didn't. It's rare that a movie can actually scare me to the extent that I grow more and more uncomfortable with it, and look forward to the ending. And then it came.

And the ending sucked!

It's the most crucial thing in any story. It's like having an amazing five course meal and then having a steaming turd for dessert. The Ending is what EVERYONE will remember. Tattoo that behind your eyelids if you must.

What was even worse was that, as I drove home, alone and at night, I started deconstructing the film. Breaking it down like I'm sure most writers do to see how it worked. Sort of like reverse engineering something by taking it completely apart. What I found was that, despite the amazing experience, as a piece of storytelling, there were quite a few unanswered questions, and even more, a few glaring contradictions. Given, this was no Alone in the Dark, but still...it was like the cinematic equivallent of Chinese food; tastes good going down, but three hours later, you're hungry again.

As a writer, I'll assume that the answers I sought were left on the cutting room floor. Cut out of the film to give it more dramatic effect, or to simply trim the running time and fit the maximum amount of asses into the seats during its theatrical run. Sadly, this often happens with little or no regard to the actual impact on the story, but rather, the bottom line.
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Leave your friends at home.

Trying to break in to Hollywood is in many ways, like Monopoly. You move to L.A., start out at GO! and roll the dice. A few bad decisions and you can end up bankrupt, in jail, unable to move forward. A huge helping of talent, a little bit of luck, motivation the likes of which few can comprehend, and you've got your hotels on Park Place and Boardwalk.

I set out to conquer this town several years back with a good group of friends. Some that I've known for many years, one that I've known since diapers. Since then:

• one has moved back home with his mother
• one has had a child and gotten a divorce, essentially rendering himself financially insolvent
• another simply has tuned out and taken up drugs
• one has gone back to school and is now living in Florida
• and a lifelong friendship slowly fell apart when one of us moved up the ladder while the other simply stayed still and did nothing with himself.

When we all set out to conquer this town together, we used to joke over late night beers in cheap bars that one day we'd all do a movie together. I would write it, two of them would direct, one of them would shoot it, and two would act in it.

The other day I realized that it's been well over a year since we all had a beer together, let alone have actually been together. Were we to meet up today, somehow, I think the conversation would be rather silent.
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Go see this movie. NOW!

Christian Slater...

Tara Reid...

...and Stephen Dorf

In an Uwe Boll film.

Alone in the Dark!

Worst.
Movie.
Ever.

I may have to rename this blog if Uwe Boll ever decides to start his own.

This movie should be seen by any and all with an interest in any aspect of filmmaking, be it acting, writing, directing, cinematography, composing, editing, catering, set dressing, line producing, FX, etc, for the simple reason that not a single thing works in this entire effing movie. Nothing, nada, zilch. It's not even "so bad it's good", it's just plain terrible on all levels. I saw this for free and I feel ripped off.

Two so-called Hollywood movies into his career, and this I know: Uwe Boll's best could never equal my worst.

Cocky? Hell-fucking-yes. You would be too if you'd just experienced the experience that is...

Alone in the Dark!

And for the curious who wonder how crap like this can get made, let me send you to this interview with one of the original screenwriters.


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Business or Pleasure...?

Or a bit of both.

Late afternoon meeting with the C.E. and two producers on this horror project.
Meeting spills over to drinks and dinner. Plans get grander the more drinks come our way. My manager excuses himself when he realizes he's late for another drinks and dinner meeting.

Producers leave and C.E. calls some of her friends ["You'll like them. They're creative. Like you."]¹. Head to West Hollywood via cab, since neither of us should drive, it's Friday evening traffic in L.A. so we don't want to end up on the news.

More drinks in WeHo where I get hit on by the bartender. The C.E. is a bit stunned when I tell her I'm straight. Five of us take taxi-van over to Venice where we get the best mojitos this side of Havana.

Faces blur, names change. At some point an actress from a popular TV show that I don't watch gets carded when she orders a drink, so someone of age orders it for her. C.E. introduces me as a hot-up-and-coming writer to some of her friends. Blank stares all around.

Effeminate Assistant procures some Romeo y Juliet cigars, and five of us head over to his place to smoke them.

There's a party when we get there filled with a bunch of fresh faced actors/actresses, most fresh off the bus or boat from Skokie or Houston or...wherever.

Head outside to smoke the cigar after one too many conversations with a coked up hyphanete actor-writer-director-waiter.

C.E. follows me out. Talk about snowboarding, what the weather is like in New Zealand at this time of year, and how over rated Million Dollar Baby is while occasionally stifling a cough.

"I think this'll be good" I say.

"The cigar?" She asks with a quizzical look.

"No, the project. I think it'll be really good."

She thinks about it. Nods, as if giving me the benefit of the doubt.

"Just don't fuck it up."

Silence; inhale. She stares off into space for a moment, smiles, and excuses herself.

"I've got a pile of scripts waiting for me at home. Let's talk monday."²

I realize I'm alone in someone elses back yard and I only just met them two hours ago. I taxi it home and when I pay for the cab I find several business cards that I must have been given at some hazy point last night.

I pass out downstairs on the sofa to G4TV and annoying Sir Mix-a-Lot commercials for Jamster!

My hangover promptly arrives five hours later.

---

¹This is a nice way of saying: "Like you, they're a step a way from total insanity. Amusing to watch, and fun to be around in easily escapable surroundings, I wouldn't trust them with a chain saw."

²I have seen this "Pile-o-Scripts" and it's disturbing to say the least. She is, without doubt, one of the hardest working C.E.'s in this town.

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The Wind Up...

The Pitch

So picture this:

You're in a meeting. A producer / creative exec / story editor / etc. says: "We've got this idea. It's Die Hard. But here's the twist. The lead, is a female bounty hunter. And the husband, is a stay-at-home Dad."

"Okay," you say, nodding, feigning interest.

Beat; then.

"What do you think?" He/She/It asks, taking a sip from a bottle of water.

"That's it?"

He/She/It nods with a grin. The assistant clears his throat. Someone in a nearby office screams: where's my fucking Blackberry!?

"We'd like to hear your take," Person of Power says. "Take it home, kick it around, see what you come up with."

You shake hands, get your parking ticket stamped, battle traffic to get home, and for the next week you come up with an entire movie.

An entire movie. Beginning, middle, end. Basically 120 minutes worth of visual and audio information. No big sweat. Maybe you craft a story you start to like. You find something compelling in it. A commentary on the Alpha Male culture, or a twist on your standard Saturday Night action thriller.

You write your pitch down. Maybe first on the PC, then onto notecards. You edit, change, cross out, rewite.

Then you memorize it. Enough for about 15-20 minutes. You make it exciting, like you're telling a story to a few friends over drinks. Not like you're giving a speech you've memorized, which is what it really is.

You anticipate questions.

• Could you clarify why the villan needed to rob the bullet train?
• What's the motivation for the cop when he betrays the bounty hunter?
• Does Act 3 need to take place on a jet boat?

You do all this work, maybe a weeks worth, 40 hours.

And here's the thing.

Dozens of other writers are doing the same thing. You're doing the equivallant of a literary American Idol. All in the hope that you'll get the assignment to write a Female Die Hard.

God I love this business!

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Digital Therapy

I've decided to start a blog.

Actually, I had a blog going at one time, but it was in no way connected to my job. However, like all things Hollywood, in this town you tend to become your job. This will simply be an extension of that. This being the blog, that being my job.

So.

Where to begin?

How about some questions:

Q. So why post a Blog?

A. Because I spend 8-12 hours a day writing, outlining, taking meetings, or rehearsing pitches. This gives me a chance to:

1. Interact with the world outside [Hollywood].
2. Gossip about people, jobs, or just generally bemoan my situation.
3. Chronicle what it's like swimming with the sharks.
4. Heck, maybe even answer a few fictional question I make up for myself.

Q. So, what films have you written and where can I see them?

A. I don't have a single produced credit to my name. However, I hope to change that soon.

Q. What scripts have you sold?

A. On spec? None.

Q. What about assignments?

A. Fighting for a few currently. I'll keep you posted.

Q. Anything in Development?

A. Yes. A pretty fucked up horror film, a politcal thriller, and a third project, a quasi-sci-fi mind fuck that's about as confusing as the plot to Lost. By "in development" I mean that people who make movies are in the early stages of trying to make these. Into movies, that is.

Q.Have you been paid to write?

A. Unbelievably, yes. I've crossed that threshold and I'm now able to afford this addiction 24/7. So long as I don't develop a raging coke habit and cultivate a Don Simpson-esque lifestyle, I should be able to keep my Powerbook, my morning bike rides, and afford the occasional romp off to some exotic corner of the globe.

Q. How old are you?

A. Under thirty and older than twenty.

Q. Who's your agent?

A. I have two, and they're at one of the Big Three, or Big Five, or Big Seven, depending who you ask. I've been with them a little under a year and I'm pretty happy. They sent my spec out last year and introduced me to the town. Without their help and backing, I'd still be banging my head against the iron wall of Hollywood.

Q. Manager, Lawyer?

A. Yup. My manager kicks ass. He's about as close to a writing partner as I could have. My lawyer, thankfully, hasn't needed to be used that much.

Q. What's your name?

A. Not important. I haven't gotten a better seat at the Oscars because of it, and I doubt you'd recognize it. In fact, I haven't been to the Oscars period. This time last year I was probably watching the Oscars from a bar because I couldn't afford cable and my then-crummy hovel didn't get antenna reception.

Q. Why all the secrecy? Doesn't everyone in Hollywood name drop?

A. I'm sure they do, but I don't know many of them. I'm basically two or three rungs above the bottom of the ladder. Dropping names right now would be career suicide, especially if I call them a Dimwitted Hack Producer Who Hasn't Made Anything Good Since The Mid 90's. And despite what you just saw on Entertainment Tonight, my feeling is that most people in "The Biz" seem to enjoy their privacy. Except when it'll get them a better table at Koi.

Still, I think people in the Biz who read this may be able to figure out who I'm talking about, and how those fucking life size Agent Smith figures that greet you can make you jump if you've had to much coffee before your pitch.

Q. So then how do I know you're real?

A. You don't. I could be an overweight 40 year old man posting this from the basement of his parents house in Dayton, OH. Such is this great thing called "the internet", and if that's the case, I hope at least I entertain you.
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