From the warped mind of David Arquette comes The Tripper

A little bit of a shameless plug for a film which I've been a fan of since last November. Even in H to the Wood, everyone supports one another. I give you my good friend's directorial debut...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P2dLHt_-0j0

Death of a widescreen television and praying to the porcelain gods.

I was in the middle of a tivo-ed episode of Chuck today when the aromatic wafts of burning wires filled my nose and a second later, my television exploded.

Fuck.

FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.

It took me 18 months to commit to a widescreen and another two years before it died on me. I think I may let the tv sit there for a while before I get a new one. I'm a masochist. Sue me fuckers.

It's been a while since I've visited ye old blog. A lot has happened. I went to NY and wandered the streets. It was kismet I guess since the last piece I wrote was set in the city that truly never sleeps. Getting a lay of the land was a great experience. It beats mapquesting areas and hoping that studio people really aren't that smart. Wait, ummmm...

I was in NY trying to gather some footage for the new film Everybody Wants to be Italian as it premiered at the San Genarro Feast. The film stars Jay Jablonski, Cerina Vincent and Marisa Petroro. The week was a blur and we all seemed to have a great time.

I totally geeked out there when, as I was lost, happened upon Delancey Street. Thinking back to one of my favorite films, Happy Accidents, I remembered the climax and boom, there I was:

Another strange thing happened...10 o'clock Jack emerged from the shallow depths of my drunken spirit and the next day, Jason Todd Ipson (a profoundly great director) dubbed me GP or Georgia Peach as I supposedly told a girl that I'd eat her like a Georgia peach while drinking in the meat packing district at 3am. Oops. No one really wants to believe what they've done before praying to the porcelain gods, but no it happened I'm afraid. Enter evidence labled Myspace message numero uno:Hmmmm...what else is new??? Tissue is complete. Probably the darkest thing I've ever created. Let's see if the studios bite. But alas, it's an intelligent story in the vein of Se7en and I haven't seen many of those lately. Fingers crossed.

Ciao. No TV. Early to bed.

Redfoot aka Zed: The usual suspect has been caught.

A buddy of mine called today.

"Jack, let me tell you what happened this weekend."

"Tell me-"

"Peter Greene came around-"

Let me interject and mention that Peter Greene the actor, Pulp Fiction, The Usual Suspects, Training Day, The Mask, used to live in my friend's apartment building. And he's fucking nuts.

"Margaret rode up in the elevator with Peter and his eyes were all shifty. She said 'Hello, Peter...' to no avail."

"Does sound like Peter-"

"I know, doesn't it? But the cameras show him wandering around the building, then he slipped down into the laundry room, put on a ski mask and proceeded to steal the license plates off of Flanagan's Lexus."

"What?" Coffee sprayed out of my nose-

"The guy's gone buggers. He stole Flanagan's license plates. And he's caught on camera. They're thinking about selling the footage to TMZ.COM."

I love this town.

Wagering my mother's soul.

I found out the other night that my mother, who's a truly good woman, has been reading my words here. Reeling back to my younger days, a piece of me recalled a time when I got busted stealing my father's Playboys. Oops.

Hmmmm...

I do feel kind of bad for airing out laundry on here at times. I've wagered my mother's genuine soul far too many times out here with various industry people. None have had to collect...yet.

Apologies. Guess that's the theme today. Just like at the New Bev last night. Some patron was sneezing up a lung during the climax of Invasion of the Body Snatchers and he belts out an apology to the audience and everyone cracked up.

The Hollywood Animal, an actress & an empty plate.

EXT. PATIO - CAFE MED

With the sun about to set, the patio bustled with Hollywood hopefuls, powerful executives and the spotlight seekers. An actress, a director and a writer sat at a table sipping iced teas-

HOLLYWOOD ANIMAL
I knocked Johnnny Knoxville's teeth out once at The Standard.

JACK

(laughing hysterically)

Really? Tell me that one--

And the anecdote continued from the lips of one of the industry's most powerful writer/producers. I sat in the patio of the sheik LA hotspot and listened to the Hollywood animal as he spun countless yarns of the business. Sitting to his left was another product of an age old icon, Samantha Lockwood, brilliant actress and daughter of the acclaimed Gary Lockwood.

As the animal and I dug into our plates of pasta, Sam sat with nothing in front of her until our server brought Sam an empty plate and set it down. She smiled and thanked the waitress.

WAITRESS

So you don't feel left out.

Quick with my wit, I threw a piece of bread on the empty plate-

JACK

That's all you get.

Sam nibbled away and shared her Knoxville story from her days on Lords of Dogtown. Nothing bad for the record, but just a moment in time from a very odd world that I'm immersed in.

It was in that surreal moment, with the most sincere grin and twinkle in the Hollywood animal's eye followed by the smile of the actress that I realized this is my life. Not a life wanted. But a life had and that is happening right now. Who would've thunk?

Conversation flowed like the mighty Nile and at the end of the evening, a very profound and life changing event transpired-

To be continued...

2007: A Myspace Odyssey & my stealth white car.

"Dude, your car's stealth."

"What?"

"Your car's invisble to cops and parking enforcement because it's white."

My friend went onto explain the potential invisibility that my car has as it circumvents the road rage of Los Angeles. Apparently cars that are black, silver, & red are prime targets on the road. People in white cars are invisible.

Great. I'm invisible.

Moving on. Myspace. Interesting place. I got an odd friend request the other day from a profile dubbed Spicy Grandma. I laughed a little and began going through the profile. All industry people. One stuck out...Sam Lockwood. Lockwood, Lockwood, Lockwood...the name rang a bell.

I bit and clicked. Actress, model, blah blah blah. Six-thousand some odd friends and counting. Fake page I thought..then I got an email from her. Back and forth a few times, and finally I asked about her name because it was sooooo familiar.

"My dad's Gary Lockwood."

A double dose of no fucking shit rolled from my finger tips. Her response...I swear to God. 2001: A Space Odyssey is one of my all-time favorite films. A classic. If you haven't seen it but pretend that you have, that's okay. Now is the time to really give it a look. Trust the Jack.

Flash forward a couple days later and after several conversations on the tele with Sam, I've been able to secure an interview with her father who's been out of the limelight for a couple years but is still alive and kicking. The link is coming soon--

Towards the end of the interview, I've likened Tom from Myspace to HAL from Space... Sam laughed and said that her father's response would be simply I don't have a computer.

That's Jack's Myspace Odyssey for the day.

I love Don Knotts. Thanks Don Knotts.

Those words were scrolled on the wall of a restaurant I grabbed a quick bite from this afternoon.

Interesting, no? Don commenting on himself as the rest of the wall has ramblings from Cynthia Nixon praising the food to Carmen Electra offering to spank the owner. Peculiar.

I was thumbing through this week's double issue of EW last night in between loads of laundry & kitchen cleaning and happened upon Peter Berg's The Kingdom. Giddy as a kid, that I am, to see what he and his neighbor Michael Mann have cooked up for with that insane cast of Piven, Bateman, Cooper, Fox, & Garner. Beyond the tales of hell during the production were the tragedies surrounding the film. There were three deaths.

One died on the way to work. Another died after having stomach cramps and upon going to the hospital, prostate cancer was diagnosed and he was gone within a week. The third passed away from an onset collision. The industry is family now, so I seeked out each on IMDb to see who they were and what they did. The third death struck me. His name was Nick Papac, 26 years old and had a decent list of creds before his demise. I went down to his message board and my blood ran cold for his mother was posting messages to her son. I couldn't help but comment and extend my condolences.

Odd that she was telling Nick of her latest adventures. I stared at her profound message for some time then happiness began to fill my heart. As painful as it may seem, her son died doing what he truly loved. There was no hesitation. No hindsight. No judgment on her part. Simply acceptance.

How many of us can say that about our lives? That we're doing truly what we want, day in and day out? I know my parents can't. Probably about 80% of my friends can't either to certain degrees. Hell, on some days I find myself saying wtf?

Going back to my headline of "I love Don Knotts. Thanks Don Knotts" --

Maybe Don had it right when he was here with us. Maybe we need to thank ourselves a bit more for where we are in life.

Hungry Cat, salad consumption six feet under and wicked witches.

One of the most underrated films of the summer has to be Stardust. Walking into it last eve, wondering how Matthew Vaughn, acclaimed director of Layer Cake, would tackle a screenplay by the likes of Neil Gaiman...all I can say is that I was impressed. Reading that Sarah Michelle Gellar had passed on the role that subsequently went to Ms. Danes, I couldn't imagine anyone else other than Claire nailing the role of a fallen star.

The film itself is being considered a massive failure in the eyes of industry elite and I've gotta say that it was truly poor marketing and a shitty idea to release this film in the dog days of August. Stardust is an epic people. November November it should've been the sweet month of November. Post Halloween & pre-Thanksgiving. Good job on that one Paramount. Brad Grey, television producer. I blame you for the failure of this.

From the opening sequence, one disconnects from reality and actually believes the world before us. Playing on our internal dreams and fancies of wanting that perfect someone to simply drop out of the sky and steal our hearts. Is it possible?

Love.

A profound word with so many connotations. We have the eternal love of blood, i.e. Billy Bob & Angelina, the abusive love, i.e. Ike Turner & Tina Turner, the wtf love Tom Cruise & Katie Holmes, the true love, i.e. Johnny & June Carter Cash, the teen love, i.e. Macauley Kulkin & Rachel Miner and the profound spiritually woven love...(insert your names here).

Let me digress to my days of lecturing at the college. It was a pre-Valentine's Day assignment. A bit abstract...write about love. a poem about love. My god, did those little fuckers groan! I was giddy as a kid on the inside. Happy to know most of the class was out of luck like yours truly when it came to that subject.

V-Day was upon us. I asked for volunteers to read their poems. No takers but one said I could read theirs. Looking it over, I stared at the kid and asked-

"You wrote this?"

He nods.

"Yep."

"Really? Your words? On your mother? I'm always wagering my mother and she's truly a wonderful woman. So, this is a big deal--"

"Mmmmmhmmm."

"Okay...What's love? What's love got to do with it? Got to do with it? Is love a second hand emotion...?"

By now the fierce people of the class were growing restless.

"I don't know professor Jack. I keep hearing this rhythm..."

"Sing it out for me, brother!"

The shy kid stood up and belted out Tina's tune and the class howled. The kid sat as we applauded his performance.

I don't think the word can ever be used properly. The definition seems to have been incorporated and corrupted through the ages. It's unfortunate. Remember a time when the word was almost a binding agreement? Now it's thrown around so loosely, vaguely, it sort of has lost its meaning. I for one am guilty of this crime of passion.

Wearing one's heart on their sleeve in Los Angeles is not the best of ideas. It's like drawing out your queen at the start of a chess match. Bad move. I am notorious for showing that side way way way too early. Not anymore. I have got my poker face on. Wait, hold on, where is it?

The great Danes resonated with me last night. Is love right in front of you or is it an idealized misconception? One's mind wanders towards the idea of spirituality and how it leads us, the denizens of Hollywood while providing us with a common connection and fucking Rachel Griffiths is staring at us throughout our conversation at the Hungry Cat. See the Hungry Cat that was with me below.

I couldn't help but overhear Rachel's heavy accent minutes before telling her husband how nice of a date it was for them. But then I noticed her taking notice of the conversation I was in the midst of. A collective thought of zen that seems to be the emerging trend in Los Angeles. Everyone's looking for that mental space. The break from the norm. I get my daily fix by working the shit out of myself either spinning or training with the hungry cat. That's officially her new nickname.

Growing up in the midwest and never having aspirations of the silver screen, well, conscious aspirations for I believe that my subconscious had these wishes lurking in my dreams...it's a surreal and obscure thing. Living and breathing your dream. After years of reading about the Hollywood storm, circling it's absolute chaos, I'm now hanging out in the eye of it. And it seems to finally be calming the fuck down. Breathe. It's just another path in life. Writing is rewriting and I'm in the middle of rewriting my life. Moving forward and watching this girl eat her salad in front of me and being intrigued by her consumption approach. I don't think even a year ago I would've paid attention to it.

Guess it's the little obscure things we take for granted that make us happy in this existence. Open your eyes or else you may never know what's in front of you. And please, stop texting while driving.

Peace.

A newborn with no name, the Griffin and a mad mad mad Hollywood Jungle.

"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."

Edgar Allan Poe

"My parents didn't give me a name until about a month after I was born."

I thought she was kidding. "Really? What did they call you until then?"

"I'm serious. They referred to me as baby until my dad called me his jewel and then Tiffany came of it..."

That's the jist of the conversation. More flowed, but I was stuck on that idea. A baby with no name. Guess Tif truly fits her, her soul deserves to be admired. And it will soon enough.

All I could think was Holy Wow as she grinned slyly (see her grin below. How can one not be smitten by that?)



Today's theme is detachment and acceptance. Sorry for being so blunt, but the past few weeks have been truly eye opening. Let me digress a bit. Back in July, my inside guy sends me an email about a screening of a film that has no track record. No IMDb, no Baseline studio system, no reviews other than this little diddy that's buried on the internet due to a poorly advised screening of the film at the AFM. Note to all those who aspire, DO NOT SHOW YOUR FILMS AT THE AFM...it's a meat market and any random critic can walk in off the street and bash your film. One may suggest that getting a film made is the difficult part, but the truth is, it's all about distribution. But then again, locking up foreign isn't that hard either. Trust the Jack.

Anywho...the film. So, I get this tidbit about a film that's completely under the radar and I utilize my little black book to locate the writer/director's contact info. Blah blah blah, a month later I'm sitting in a bar that he just opened, The Griffin, which there's one he has in Vegas too.

Hours before I had been privy to a test screening of his latest film. Welcome to the Jungle which is a cerebral mind-fuck of a film that plays on the mythos of what happened to Michael Rockefeller and his disappearance in New Guinea; Cannibal Territory 1961. The film itself takes place in the present day and has some extraordinary performances. The production value's absolutely insane and the pending conclusion, well, people were walking out while covering their eyes in disgust. This film is going to be an instant cult classic. I bet my mother's soul, and she's a great woman. I feel like I'm in the film INTACTO as I wager my mother and Max Von Sydow is hiding amidst the shadows.

Back to the screening. After it was all said and done, for the first time, I was on the other side of the curtain hearing comments from the audience that Hollywood tends to disregard. The experience was insanely interesting. I was able to disconnect from the material and engage an unbiased group while setting aside my own thoughts. From this, my writing is going to take a different turn in approach to its final destination. I think this will be a good thing. It's so very easy to get swallowed by the industry jungle here. One must be able to disconnect from there work--

Easier said than done. I got a call this morning about a project I wrote a few years ago with acclaimed screenwriter David Aaron Cohen. It was a great experience and I learned more working with him than I did while attending the AFI. The script was called The Maddening. Hearing the news this morning about David's blessing and the material going out left me giddy as a kid for a brief moment but then reality sunk in...

"I need the title."

"What?"

I found myself explaining that I had titled another project with the existing title based on a story I wrote before collaborating with Cohen. Did that make any sense?

Laughter ensued as we agreed to certain concessions. And I have my title.

I will part the daily blog with a photo-op of my good buddy Ryan Rotten as he sums up my thoughts of the politics of Hollywood...

And these are the days of our lives...where's fucking Johnny Drama?

I fucking hate soap operas. Despise the shit out of them. They're beyond annoying. But today, the days sunk in as I chatted with my mom back in good ole' minnesota.

Insert chuckle..."Aunt Kitty died."

"I'm sorry, what?" I asked.

"Aunt Kitty died. Didn't I tell you?"

"Sorry. No. You missed that mark."

awkward silence.

"Did you laugh when you told me she died?"

I could hear my mother take a drink of something. A bit of pre-happy hour bliss.

"When did she die?"

a lonnnnnnnnnnnggggggggg pause. "This morning. Her name was Kitty...." snicker snicker--

Oh, the lies! My mother was lying. Not really good at it either, but she was trying to cover the tracks and my aunt's timeline. The conversation took a drastic segueway into the fact that my beloved aunt had a stripper's name. Sad but true. I loved Aunt Kitty. I have fond memories of her freezing her ass off in below-zero wind chill puffing away on cigs outside our house during the holidays. She always gave the coolest gifts. Aunt Kitty will forever be missed.

And next up, Lindsay Lohan is being sued for---

Drama. That's what fills life. This town especially. Who's fucking over whom...catching, receiving...

My thought is that living in Los Angeles, you're one of three things. You're either:

1.) Fucked
2.) A fucker.
3.) A mother fucking asshole.

Wonder what Borat would say given the options???

Within the back of my mind, that song by We Might Be Giants plays on a continuous loop--Why Can't we be Friends?

I've had the fortunate experience of being labeled all three. I've been fucked by producers. (Can I get a show of hands of those who also have?)

I've been called a fucker by a colleague. And I've been called a mother fucking asshole by an ex-girlfriend. Funny that she was the one who broke it off. I just happened to tell her something she didn't want to hear. Karma.

Once again I feel like Scorsese because I've lost the narrative thread. Sorry. Don't hate. Appreciate the next moment and breath you take.

Ground control to Major Tom...

I skipped yesterday. Not sure why. Hmmmm...where did the day go?

This morning after my ass shredding by the Tif, I ran over to my favorite production company in town bearing gifts of Red Velvet cake from Doughboys on third street. And some coffee beans. And now I'm blogging about it. Nice. Kind of retarded though--

Anywho, I was chatting with a buddy of mine, a director of a couple films, Unrest and Everybody Wants to be Italian. The process. The filmmaking process...and almost to the point of bashing ones head against the wall, the realization came out that nothing seems to ever get done in this town. Sad but true. Guess there's no real remedy to that concept. I wonder what Charlie Brown would do if the disgruntled young man were living and breathing.

My secret new addiction is Operator 11. It's a fusion website of myspace, youtube and MTv's the Real World. I suggest you all check it out. A hint is that you can link your live broadcast through your myspace page as a bulletin, real time, no delay. I truly believe that this is the site that's going to kick the living shit out of youtube and myspace. Check it out.

Unfortunately, I don't have anything else of excitement to say other than I love my new Coquette Productions coffee mug. Thanks to Bowland and DA for that.

The Biggest Loser

Come on, Jack, keep it together...

Andrea screamed this morning in the grueling class as she ripped us to shreds. Good times. My focus was off. I'll be the first to admit. But it was like old home week because a blast from my past was in there. Jillian Michaels, aka - the whoop ass.

In the summer of 2002, when I was homeless, couch hopping and attending the AFI, my friend & actress called me and said she was doing an infomercial and they needed some regular people. Apparently, the company had stacked the deck with actors & models and then me. The preliminary screen was daunting. I met with Jackie Warner of Bravo's Workout and Jillian who would later be the head trainer on NBC's The Biggest Loser. Truth be told, they intimidated the shit out of me. Threatening that if we weren't making weight cuts, we'd get booted.

Yikes!

And we commenced at the beginning of June that year. Pan Pacific Park just off of Beverly Blvd. I have to say it was invigorating. Three nights a week of wind sprints across the field, weight training and aerobic crap.

Those fucking lunges killed me. Soon after the rush set in. I was hooked. Running daily, hitting the gym followed by meets with the terrible two. It was brutal. I don't know how many times I vomited during the training. But it was good.

Within a few months, I was a new man. Then I broke my ankle while out running, trying to clear my head...clutz! I continued to train. I attended spin class, propped my cast and leg on the handle bars and spun my heart out.

2002 was my favorite summer out here. Seeing Jill this morn brought back a lot of great memories.

The days are getting shorter. Appreciate them all.

Peace

Blurred Reality & Myspace

Dreaming of my pending initiation into reality television, I have found myself more in tune with life itself. This morning before my ass whipping with the Tif, I stumbled upon an article in a magazine about a reality star's recent suicide. I never saw the show which aired in June on CBS to low ratings and subsequently cancelled. This evening I did a google search and found some tragic things about the past life of an extremely strong girl named Cheryl K. and her plight. She lost the love of her life to suicide back in June and struggled on. After posting random myspace messages around, she left us.

In this day and age of technology yet more disconnection from reality, a digital imprint seems to be the way of the future. Morbid. Haunting and deeply affecting resonance like this is everywhere.

Like this. The blog. Jack on a Blog. I have absolutely no idea who's reading this, if anyone is beyond my own eyes. Does it matter? I guess in foresight it does. Everyone remembers what they were doing when JFK was assassinated (well not me, but my parents), yet, no one knows what he was thinking before he left us.

Digital resonance. We all have a paper trail now. A receipt, movie ticket stub, a barista that serves us coffee...these are things of the past. Now it's about this. Our thoughts, words, actions, and posts. Creepy if you think about it. But it is a way for us to leave an imprint.

Imprint. Such an interesting word to me. We're but a blip on the evolutionary radar of this world. Where do we stand as individuals? Striving. For what? Whom? Ourselves and to better each and everyone of us? That's about as hard as dealing with Global Warming. But is it really?

Change is good. Patterns are comfortable but change instigates life. Life begins to complement us. Be it a hair color that changes your personality a little (sorry T, had to throw in your thought of blonde to brunette the other day) or to a change in lifestyle and relationships.

All I can say is we should all make tomorrow different and forget about five minutes ago.

Peace.

Wristcutters and the Criminal Mind of Mr. White is now paid a visit by Bobby Fischer's dad.

After clearing the space between my ears late last night, I stayed up late watching a gem of a film entitled Wristcutters: A Love Story (see clever artwork below). In my ongoing pursuit of borrowing films from various companies before they're released, I must admit my kleptomaniac guilt on this one. I had watched the film a while ago but decided to give it another look. For everyone else, the movie opens nationwide sometime this October. Wristcutters doesn't glorify the taking of one's life, but merely attempts a world of the hereafter with the same problems we face day in and day out. Sossamon and Fugit provide a textured innocence throughout as Shannyn's character explains...Me being here is an accident. I'm not gonna spill the goods on this film, but mark my words, it's destined to become the Reality Bites of this year.

A novel I am a fan of, Haunted by Chuck Palahniak, spins countless tales that are interwoven. One in particular deals with teen suicides. Sad story. The statistics don't lie. But the parents do...According to national statistics, teens that commit suicide by 'hanging'...something like 65% of them are actually performing self asphyxiation while in the act of ummm...and the parents are ashamed. Mind blowing, isn't it?

In a land of reaction to actions, I am stuck in this mindset today. Reading the trades headline of Harvey Keitel aka Mr. White, stepping into a starring role on CBS' Criminal Minds, I began to think of Mr. Patankin and what led him to react so harshly to the hit show and his abrupt departure. Well, there is always potential for a sequel to Alien Nation.

But alas, now it's Mr. Mantegna. How did Joe steal the role from Mr. White?

One person's loss is another's gain. Choices is the theme today. Where do we go from here?

Saboteur Ratatouille

Yesterday was a bit interesting. It's amazing how people wander into your life during awkward points, sprinkle their presence around and leave you wanting more. But stepping out of the equation, you see a different trail which is painfully bleak.

Maybe Europeans have it correct. Their assumptions, actions and consumptions of daily life...and then they sleep peacefully at night. The root is that they care about themselves more than we do.

After an insanely invigorating session with the Tiff, I found myself sitting at the cafe today with an actress of whom I met almost a year ago and we shared tales of our adventures out here. Interesting stuff. Lots of talk which usually consumes my daily life with nothing much to show other than the whispy thought of this close. But then my mind wandered back to this extreme sense of negativity from various individuals in my life and I began thinking why in the hell am I giving two seconds thought to this? Easier said in done as I feel that we're all guilty of this one way or another.

Reflecting back on a conversation I had with said individual left my mind numbed. And it hurt. All these years of being there for this individual and notta once was I ever treated with the courtesy I deserve. Amazing. Yet I'd forgive and forget and the cycle would continue. Over and over annoyingly like a Brett Ratner film. The final nail was a bit about her discussing bipolarity and me in the same sentence. The gall of this had me floored.

The madness has ended. I've moved on. To let go and not care for another's actions is probably the best thing anyone can do in life. Especially L.A. Guess it really comes down to an extreme difference in priorities. Mine are a career and not looking for a relationship (thought I'd state it that way since when you're not looking it happens...truth be told...family is important to me.)

With that burden off my chest, I proclaim there is to be no more Saboteur Ratatouille for me. I am done self sabotaging.

Peace.

A.i. 2: Artificial Ineptitude & the art of film appreciation

Some days I absolutely love this town. With almost a hundred grand sunk in education and almost every day I deal with the lowest common denominator within the industry. A majority of people try their very hardest, but then there's the inept group struggling to get ahead.

Good and bad, it comes down to the process dangling at the ropes end. For that I am grateful and can travel to my sanctuary, mentally check out and do that thing I do at the pc.

The concept of consulting on projects boggles my mind. I was in a meeting a few weeks ago and this chick, a so-called producer, was sitting in with said party with me. We were discussing a past project that he did and the little producer that could looks up from her mac--

Oh, you worked on that? Like as a production assistant?

The sincerity on her face made me laugh, cry and want to rip it off for the sheer audacity of her comment.

Actually, I wrote, produced and directed the film... my guest replied. By the way, the film was a Marvel film released in the spring of 2004. Do some digging...

More bewilderment filled the inept producer. I looked at my guest and apologised for the lack of knowledge and stupidity for the 'producer's' comment. Keep in mind that I had forwarded links of the guests to the company and supplied them with their bios. Their credits have amassed 2 billion dollars in worldwide revenue for their respective films.

Aye-yi-yi. It amazes me the lack of education, respect and concern in this land of tarnished tinsel. Patience is a virtue, but puhleeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaase, enough is more than enough.

There's an interesting shift in Hollywood right now. Creatively, not so much due to the A.D.D. generation of executives, but it's a loosening of the reigns. We should all pray for the future of film because the true genius of this town is having one helluva time in comparison to the shit being jammed down our throats.

Underdog people. Walt Disney made a film entitled Underdog. Lord have mercy.

Born Identity...a little bit of relativity to The Bourne Ultimatum

Five left? Are you kidding me?

Nope. Five left!

Christ, this morning I seemed to be dragging a little bit at the gym and Tiff continued breaking the minnesotan horse down to a whiny bitch. That's right...I felt that side clawing its way up my throat and wanting to get out. Then I swallowed the past and continued on. I've got to say that she's making a better man out of me. That's rare.

I can give her all the cred, but I've realized that after seeing The Bourne Ultimatum this weekend, the will seems to be in us all.

Greengrass has done an exceptional job with the franchise since Liman handed the directing reigns over to the man. Some say it was a forced handing over due to Liman's odd approach to directing and the fact that the first film had Uni execs sweating the opening weekend. Rumors swirled that the producers stepped in and recut the film, but alas, the film grossed a surprising 27.1 million back in June of 2002 and spawned Supremacy in '04 and now Ultimatum...

A bit of Bourne is within us all.

Who are we as individuals? Most of us are privy to that information, but a select few don't know where they came from. I'd liken them to the so-80's term, Latchkey kids. The kids who are escorted home after school and made sure they enter their house by the school patrol because their parents are either working or something else...

Bourne suffers from amnesia. Stress related, suppressed, blah blah blah. Car chase. Smashcut. Car chase. Mystery. Pain...

Life itself.

My co-writer's son came out early one morning, very young kid, and he looked at David and I and said;

I woke up. Again!

Those words have haunted me for quite some time. The joy in the child's face, a perplexing paradox of something we sometimes take for granted. Daily. Hourly. The gift of knowing, seeing the past and looking to the near future. Not tomorrow, but 5 minutes from this very moment. Where will you be?

Damon's character goes to the extreme to find his past. Something he lived and ran away from. This provides a great thrill ride. But there is the other notion of simply not knowing a life that was taken....but say you were placed in another. The old saying, the grass is always greener--

Maybe not so much. A blessed soul that's become near and dear to me has a similar story. A life granted to her, raised, and yet knowing of another that was kept away from her until her later years. Adoption.

I'm all for the concept, don't get me wrong, but you hear about it all the time--the question is do you really feel the consequences & challenges surrounding it. I can go on and on about this individual rambling how intriguing, brilliant and enlightening she is, yet she's endured more than a majority of us will ever feel and experience.

She's beyond positive. A quiet positive. Behind her eyes, the quiet positive is stripping away the layers of that very experience. Processing. Adapting. Growing. Nurturing. Soaking in the moment. Her presence reminds of a female version of Gregory Peck...when she's around, you know everything's going to be fine. Strange comparison, but just a comparison to an incredible presence. Her outlook on life itself is staggering. I can't remember the last time I actually listened with my mind, heart & soul like when she speaks. Everything's good and if it's not...

"Peace." And she walks away.

My god, the strength beyond that concept boggles my mind. I continue the mindnumbing process of how she processes and after dubbing her an enigma of this realm, it came to me in a blinding blur and I finally figured out the color of her Karma. (sorry, it's a secret.)

I dwell. Dwell in the past. I hate it. Getting over that obstacle of my very nature...should've, would've, could've...it's all bullshit. Done. Over. Finished. Time to move on--

Knowing...(I originally began this sentence with 'guessing' but deleted it and added this bit) Knowing that at this point in my life, progression of the unknown into uncharted waters is where I will succeed. Life doesn't have a roadmap. But our existence is built around rest stops.

Peace.

Memories of trying to buy a Haro dirtbike.

In great anticipation **cough cough** of my friend Solomon's latest film release about rival packs of wolves in Skinwalkers, I slipped into the press junket yesterday and caught up with my old grade school friend that stars in the movie. It was like old home week for about half an hour.

The conversation ranged from me trying to buy his old Haro dirtbike to stories of my parents and sister and a recollection of private school. For a second, Hollywood seemed to disappear and life snuck in. Two roads diverged...and look at how far we've come.

Then life came to a grinding halt and reality caught up as the PR exec whisked me away. The experience left me in a precarious space between my ears.

Then the phone began ringing. I swear that thing's been glued to my head for far too long. Yet it never stops. Life never ceases, especially out here. Very few lazy Sundays, brunches, sunset walks by the beach. I live 20 minutes from the beach. The last time I was there I think; May. Sad. Truly. What fills the time?

2 hours waiting in line to see a film last night. But well worth it. In a summer of mindless crap, last night's was a welcome entry. It sparked the passion again. The business side seems to have disappeared and the desire to create has been born once more.

We've all chosen our posture in life. The question remains; who is embracing their choices?

A lot of heartbreak and pain seems to plague our society and minds. We seem to have adopted the pointing mentality. This happened because... but do we look inward enough? The old proverb is true, we are our own worst enemy. But a wise soul once told me;

Jack, you bend your reality by the way you smile.

Word.

Hollywood Nightlife...it was bound to be addressed.

I will be the first to admit that going out in Hollywood is a chore. Between beautifying, friend coordinating and the bastard challenge of them all; parking, the nightlife is a drag sometimes.

Stumbling through the internet today, I spied this great How To video guide and highly suggest taking a peek.

How to score free drinks in Hollywood.

Enjoy.

Hollywood Life Coach & Spiritual Trainer that Makes You Do Push-Ups

In this day & age of constant self improvement, I give you a soul known as the Tiff. Over the past month, she has transformed my spirit into something that doesn't react anymore and simply breathes through everything that life gives me. And then she forces me to do crunches and watch my posture and opening my heart and chest.

I think that's the most difficult task out here in the land of tinsel. Opening the heart. In a town of disgruntled transplants, terrible drivers and a sea of unnoticed talent, life seems to weigh us down. Simple problems become tragedies and we never stop moving at the speed of life.

From afar, this place seems vast, cluttered yet an empty vaccuum at the same time. It's mind boggling how many talented individuals have had their souls suctioned from their vessels as they spiral into an oblivion and only a few are able to crawl out.

Life Happens.

Clearly. Every single day. It happens to the best of us. Good, bad or indifferent, life happens and it won't stop happening. When I used to lecture creative writing, I began each term with one rule; that my students leave their life and inhibitions at the door because whatever they bring in the room will hold them back.

And yet, I dragged my own into the room and never let go. It's a blessing that I am no longer lecturing. The old adage is true that those who can't do, teach. Hate to say it. I'll leave that for my retirement.

I've watched The Secret a couple times now. Yes, I'm admitting to that. Does it help? Hmmmm...tough one. I think it complements my self-awareness and my posture in life.

Posture.

I've gotta thank Tiff for getting that word lodged between my ears. I can't seem to shake it today. Posture is my new word for status. How's your posture?

Well, I've got a fantastic literary agent that gives positive rubs all the time by saying, "Go get 'em, kiddo." And doesn't line up shit for me. Lazy asses out here. Unless you hit the pavement running, nothing's going to simply come to you. To be an agent is to lunch extremely well and stroke the ego of who's hot. Yet things rarely get done in the proper scheme. Reflecting back to what Wendy Finerman went through with Forrest Gump, it took the woman 10 years to get the film made. Wow.

Dog Years. Maybe that's how we need to start aging ourselves out here. David E. Kelley and Jonathan Hensleigh actually had their offices facing each other at their respective law firm in NY before uprooting to Los Angeles. Now look where they are.

This blog has been interrupted too many times today, hence its disjointedness. Wrapping it up, I am confident that my new life coach will be able to connect the narrative thread of my life from now on.

Namaste.

Man makes Chicken with pears. Christopher Walken is the man.

After a blogging absence and a trip to the Diego for Comic-Con 2007, I am back. I think the highlight was running around the madhatter named Ipson with his camera and wanton desire of capturing the finest of women as he's become interested in photography. Some good stuff, but alas, Ipson has a great eye as a director.

Staggering through the blogosphere today, I came upon the most wayward of videos The Walken Cooks a Fuckin' Chicken I highly suggest designating 3 minutes and 10 seconds to this obscure little video. The man surely knows what the hell he's doing to that damned bird. And salt. Lots of salt.

After being engrossed with the Man and his dinner, I began to think where my passion lies. Passion in life. What drives us each and everyday? This past sunday marks the 3 year anniversary death of a little kid named Thomas that was like my brother. Wondering why I was so dead on my ass that day, I spied a Spider Man 2 ticket laying on my desk. That was the last film we saw together before he left for Colorado and our plane of existence. Resorting to awkward texts back and forth with his mom, I simply lost desire to speak with anyone and retreated to the W Hotel for their Sunday night film screening by the pool. I didn't even watch that but spoke with my Slovakian actress and discussed the meaning of life and the trials we face.

At the end of the night, our consensus met each other...and all we could ask is Are we doing all that we can?

The mind wanders---

Strong Boy Blue & a bit of paranoia

I have to keep this brief right now due to my doctor's appointment and pending physical for the aforementioned tv show...

Yesterday, before the I Know Who Killed Me quasi-somber-lohanless premiere, I got a phone call from a very serious individual. They were calling from the network to address the final step in my background check. Yikes.

After a plethora of questions and them telling me no funny stuff due to my on-camera antics, I felt a bit like I was being interrogated. And it terrified me. I have nothing to hide, but the fact that I will be soon under the micro-scope has left me haunted. I think it's time to seriously clean out the cupboards at home. I'm scared of what I may find.

Will I get stalkers from this experience? Hmmmm....

2007: A Sunshine Odyssey

On a whim I went to see Danny Boyle's sci-fi epic, Sunshine, last evening. Quite the beautiful film that seems to crumble a bit in the last act. But it does post some intriguing questions of life itself.

Partnering up once again with Alex Garland (The Beach, 28 Days Later), Boyle constructs one helluva film. An eclectic cast with the always mesmerizing Rose Byrne coupled with Cillian Murphy, the film is about a mission team sent to re-ignite the sun, our life source, because it's dying. Cliche mayhem ensues with an obscure turn in the final act but otherwise the film's worth a look.

Driving home after the film, imagery of past experiences plagued my mind. Good and bad. I fell asleep shortly after arriving home and within an hour, I awoke and rubbed the sleep out of my eyes. I ended up texting my friend-life coach-trainer at an ungodly hour with an odd rambling.

Focus.

Focus in life. It's funny how we spend 9 grueling months trying to get out of the womb and another 75-100 years trying to get back in.

We're all dying. A little bit, each and every day. An odd line from the film has burned into my mind;

"Dust is 90% skin." Frightening concept if you look at it from the Occam's Razor perspective. Born into a life of debt and hardship even though we live, or most of us live, within a democratic society that says we're free. Free of what? Our personal deficits are growing exponentially and it seems the harder we work, the more green coming in, the more we become slaves to ---?

I have a practice of trying to clear the space between my ears. A daily ritual. I believe it's helping with the big picture and it's adding clarity. Intentions become true intentions and I'm beginning to see people for how they truly are. That's a horror film in itself and I'm craving a retreat into the corridors of my own soul and am prepared to sever ties with many. Life is draining itself and I seem to be drawn towards people that drain the absolute shit out of me. Guess I have a taste for the dramatics. It completes me in a morbid way.

Facing the morbidity of one's soul is a daunting task. Why do we feel obligated to belong? Are we not good enough alone? I'd say the majority wants to belong. Fit in if you will. There's really no point to that. As in SUNSHINE, it's all about the greater good. Actions cause reactions, pessimism & optimism. That's where we are. Love thyself, don't worry about anyone else and tomorrow you will be happier.

And don't forget to dust. Yesterday is in the past.

My Hands Are Bananas

Favorite music video. Reminds me of life in Los Angeles.

Dr. Steve-O, Funny's cousin - Unfunny & the legendary Laszlo Kovacs

Biggest Fears:

Sharks
Clowns
Skydiving

And I was truthfully honest when asked the question of what mine were. I should've known better.

Cruising down Sunset Blvd. today the cell rings and the producers of Dr. Steve-O have set their sights on me for their new series. The synopsis is simple:

From the creative minds of The Simple Life, The Real World and the dementia of Steve-O from Jackass comes DR. STEVE-O. Enough said I think. Yours truly plays himself. We all have to begin somewhere. I'm taking this as a nod from one of my AFI classmates, Josh Herman who landed a gig on Beauty & the Geek. Josh ended up winning the contest and landing a two picture deal.

Reality; it could be a good thing. My contract is an uberdense 37 pages. My favorite passage was about the perilous activities and being thrown in front of aggressive animals. I won't be writing about this anymore after today but I'll keep you posted after the shoots.

I wandered out to the drive-in last eve to see a double feature. I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry and Evan Almighty. Chuck was beyond disappointing. Weathered and dated material that would've suited the likes of Lemmon and Mathau back in the sixties. The writing was beyond inept and I'm still scratching my head as to where the 85 million dollar production budget went? Evan seemed to be a better film, but alas Ms. Wanda Sykes annoys the shit out of me. Just like she bugs Bill Cosby. Unfortunately, I had to leave before the film was over, but from the bit I saw, it's worth a look. And Tom Hanks produced it...odd, since he didn't produce the first. Guess it's all about Playtone being backed by Christian investors...hmmmm?

Keeping this brief today, I was sad to hear about Mr. Laszlo Kovacs, cinematographer extraordinaire! From Five Easy Pieces to Ghostbusters to uggghhh Miss Congeniality his accomplishments were great. I first gained attention to Laszlo back in 2002 when I was granted a cozy office up at Universal Pictures thanks to my bud Jim. I was nibbling on some potato leek soup one day and the chef came in with her friend and introduced us. We talked about life and eventually film when she said that I should meet her husband. After telling me she was married to Laszlo, I rewatched a few of his films. I suggested that he came to the AFI to give a lecture, but it never came together. But the intent was there.

Your family's in my prayers. Paint the heavens a beautiful picture.

Big Bear, Love Pink: Faster Spinningcat, kill! kill!

"What happened to you? Your mom made you big bear."

Those words spoken from my Slovakian friend still haunt me since she picked my up from the airport after the Christmas holiday. And the nickname Big Bear was forever granted with the gift of life.

Big Bear on roller coaster. Big Bear in car. Aye-yiyiyiyiyi! Okay, so I got a little lazy. I think all writers do to a certain degree. Self-realization's a bitch sometimes. Big Bear is becoming little bear now--

I have shifted focus to the wanton desire of working out the heart & mind by way of the most insane exercise known to civilization. Burning an unprecedented 1,000 calories inside of 35 minutes and being able to clear the space between my ears----

"Christ Jack, stay on rhythm." The world's greatest spinning instructor shouts this morning.

I was off. A little bit I might say. I'm going to blame it on the girl in front of me, inches from me, filling my mind with impure thoughts...and her ass. If Pacino were in there, he would've probably commented her on it. It was great. A truly great ass. I simply cannot get that girl's ass out of my mind. Think what you want, but the fact is that along with her ass burning an image in my mind, the letters stenciled across the couture covering her lovely ass spelled this:

LOVE PINK

But her pants were grey. WTF? Am I missing something? Please, if you're so inclined, spell it out for me as if I'm six. I just don't get it. Actually, I'm realizing that I don't understand many things in life or Hollywood High for that matter. I think an actress in rehab said it best to me once...discussing Hollywood life, rehab and work...she said that making films was her day job, Hollywood was her life and producers were her parents. Trying to fit in and do her best while the multitude of cliques, plastic sticks, and social ticks are daunting.

But in the end, does any of it make sense? Love Pink has set the new standard for my life's design and poses the unique thought of who really gives a fuck? I used to. Not anymore.

Going back to this concept of being on Dr. Steve-O's new reality show...as I enter the final stage and this week I go in for my physical to make sure all is good within Half-Bear...Anxiety has subsided and all I can think about are a couple books from my past:

Modesty Blaise and In Search of Lost Time.

First off regarding Modesty, the pulpish story has always been a gem in my mind due to the other worldly female within the narrative. And the fact that Vincent Vega took the book into the bathroom to read just before being whacked. In Search of because I believe it complements my life right now. Proust's epic has been heraled the best piece of fiction...My thoughts...it's the bestest of all times. Over 3,ooo pages of verbage to drown in, you will be thanking me in a couple months. Unless you become inspired to change the world and end up in the looney bin.

Time is of the essence. And it is running out. People seem to gravitate towards me with similar depth, creativity and spontanaeity within themselves. Once in a while, the idea of being 'lost' in life comes up amidst a heartfelt conversation, but stepping out of the bubble of limited perception, I see an organized chaos. There is a plan. Have faith. Do what you do and do it from the mother fucking heart. Everything else will fall into place.

Junk in the Trunk: The Billy Ocean Remix

I hate going back to the past, the fond memories of being accepted into grad school for film and learning the finer points of financial aid.

1.) College is important. You should go. Here, we'll give you free credit cards...you don't even need to apply for them. $6,000.oo limit.

2.) Graduate school after college is not deemed a necessity by our great government. Therefore, you only get a certain amount.

But what if the cost of tuition exceeds my financial aid and my family doesn't qualify for private loans?

"I'm sorry. I'm on vacation at Camp David and watching my dog dig holes. He's a digger. He likes to dig. I didn't go to grad school. In fact, I didn't really graduate from college. My name did though!" -- Some utopian douche president.

After landing in Los Angeles, I had no place to stay. Credit pushed to the limit, private loans were denied and my parents had no idea the journey I was embarking upon.

(My family keeps secrets...I remember a phone call once from my sis as she sobbed over Dad's pending back and nerve reconstructive surgery.

"His what?" I yelled.

"Mom didn't tell you? What's wrong with our family? First Grandpa's heart attack and now this..." she cried.

"Grandpa had a heart attack???"

You get the picture. Just call us Desperate Minnesotans -- not all things are okay, you betcha!

After I moved here, I couch hopped. Literally. Shaved in the bathroom at the college, made friends quick and couch hopped. But I did spend many a nights in my beloved Honda Accord. With the seat reclined as far back as humanly possible, I usually wept until the day faded away. The car was my sanctuary. My rock. My place of solitude where a hundred years and a pandemic of Cholera could drive passed, and it wouldn't bother me. My tranquil Zen of Honda!

I loved my car. It may not have looked like it though...

I had junk. Junk in my trunk. From years gone by. It wasn't that I was lazy but the fact that I was clinging onto that aspect of my being. Memories. It stayed that way for the last few years. And then last night...

Ring

Ring

I grabbed my phone.

"Hello?" I whispered.

"Jack, it's Esther...your trunk is open and I think your car was broken into." she replied.

4:30 in the fucking morning and I flew like a bat out of hell down the steps, around the back and into the garage and there it was...

My driver's side window smashed to bits. Peering inside, I found my disorganized mess in place. Nothing was gone. Not the stereo, garage clicker, dvds, cds, the wad of ones and fives I had resting on the passenger seat (I know, I know...I don't need a lecture about money in the car.)

I looked at the tragedy, sounded my car alarm and walked up the steps. Maybe it was time to move on. Afterall, my driver's side window motor was burnt out, the cost of that coupled with replacement glass would've amounted to a nifty down payment.

My car's been through hell and back along with a misadventure into Mexico with a Slovakian girl without a passport. Oh, the memories.

Rolling into Honda of Hollywood, I parked my car and a little old guy named Karim walked towards me.

"I need a new car."

Karim took one look at my battered betty and nodded.

"We'll take care of you, Jack."

After a couple hours of credit checks and lame paperwork dealings, I got approved and found a cool little Sedan that fit my persona. Never been one for the flash, more sensible, I found myself sitting in the backseat and eyeing the leg room for my friend's wee little one and his car seat. I just couldn't imagine having the little guy rolling in a crappy ride.

When the paperwork was near completion, I looked up at Karim and said I had a few things I needed to take out of the car and put into my new ride. He followed me out and looked inside...shaking his head in disbelief.

"Do you need all this?" He asked.

"But you should've seen what I pulled out before I came--" I replied.

Grabbing some trash bags, we began the arduous task of sifting through the last 6 years of my life in Los Angeles. The highlight was finding a musical recorder that belonged to a great kid that left us all far too early. I can't help but feel that he was whispering to me, saying "let go, Jack."

It was time. Long over-due. Now my soul feels a bit lighter. I took one last picture of the backend of my Honda with it's Minnesota license plate.

And I bid farewell of the life once had.

Legend of the Sleepy Hills and a Blonde with a Horse

Welcome to Hollywood! That line seems to haunt my dreams after watching the last great Garry Marshall film, Pretty Woman.

We've all heard stories of the land of tarnished tinsel, the struggles, achievements, mishaps and the occasional run in with a tranny posing as a, well, Axel Foley could probably do a better job than me when discussing that. Oh, wait, maybe he was just trying to help Sher out.

Regarding life out here...It all comes down to research and marketing, I guess. Looking back to last year and reading about the, ummm, mistake of a decent director (I won't mention any names out of respect, but he did direct The Edge, Along Came a Spider, Die Another Day). Apparently he was arrested on Sunset, dressed in drag and trying to get a plain-clothes cop to let the misguided director PAY for him/her to go down on them. Wait, hmmmm, a drag queen paying to service another? Odd. A little bit. It reminds me of that IQ puzzle...two jugs, one is five gallons, one is three gallons and you need to measure off exactly four gallons of water. I find myself trying to figure that one out all the time, I eventually do, then four months later I forget how to do it. Thanks to a guy named Hensleigh for embedding that one in my psyche since seeing Die Hard with a Vengeance.

Sorry for the digression. It happens. Life happens. It seems to happen when none of us are paying attention.

Legend of the Sleepy Hills...Beverly Hills. It was my first party. Now, bear in mind that in Minnesota, (Fargo is in North Dakota btw) where we kill a pig when in doubt...Parties there typically occurred in basements, barns or cornfields. Cow tipping was a regular highlight.

Memories.

The party in the Sleepy Hills. A few amateur industry peeps had invited me to this little shindig. Tiki torches, a shitload of brie, melba toast, and pinot grigio flowed as suits, actresses and the rest of us milled about.

I found myself buried in a deep conversation about, wait for it, last week's episode of Friends and this girl's conclusion that Rachel Green was not happy with her life. Rachel was played by Ms. Aniston if anyone cannot recall.

After about 27 minutes of a Friends recap of her favorite episodes, the blonde actress asked if I was into horse? Horse?

"Horses are cool." I replied.

I was having my JD moment from Scrubs as I reflected a life left back in the barnyard of Minnesota.

The blonde actress grabbed my hand and led me inside. I feel like an idiot now for blabbering about the horses of my youth at Camp Wakanakateekee.

Inside the house, she brought me upstairs and down a hall.

"Where is your horse?" I asked while looking around, trying to figure out why they'd keep a horse upstairs.

She opened a door at the end of the hall and said that her horse was in there.

Now how in the hell is the horse living in there???

(Insert record scrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeecccccccccccchhhhhhhhh here!)

I'm well educated and not naive, but coming from Minnesota where rolling mary-janes is about the extent of our drug education being in the suburbs.

HORSE = HEROIN

I'm not really in the mood to divulge the rest of that retarded moment of my life...I'll leave it up to my readers to tack on the ending they'd like to see.

Namaste

The Office: An Intern Will Rise

After moving to Los Angeles in 2001, I embarked on my rite of passage and became the, gasp, uncelebrated intern for a seemingly respectable producer. Trust me, it's nothing like what's shown on Entourage or any tv shows for that matter. In fact, it's quite a bit more entertaining.

"Hello, young man!" Said producer always would say to me as he wandered into the office with his two-thousand dollar suits.

Honestly, he looked like a well polished turd. After several months of the "young man" calling, he eventually learned my name. Not too difficult a task, but his executive assistant told me I was the first intern he called by their real name. There was one intern, Jim, which the producer dubbed Dim because of his lacking personality beyond ass kissing. I was never good at that side. I swiped rolls of toilet paper, pens, emptied the candy dish and stocked my backpack full of Arrowhead water bottles. I was poor--

(The fact is that his wife took a liking to me as a personality there and mentioned me at home once...this solidified my name in his memory. But I assure you that I was not the homewrecker in their future split. He had been married 4 other times.)

I remember the first time I was lectured there. He walked in and was upset that I was reading the trades. For some reason, said producer was mad that I was learning things before him and that the trades possessed a secret knowledge that I wasn't privy to. I guess in a David Lynch sort of world, it makes a little bit of sense. But alas, I began purchasing my own to fuck with the little man. He seemed perplexed for a while and asked if we had two subscriptions?

After spending many countless nights there for many many, too fucking many months, I got to know the real side of the producer. He was all high and mighty talking about this Gay Pride Benefit he was going to that night. Rambling on and on about his contributions, I started to really admire the guy. I guess the twinkle in my eye was spied by his executive assistant (which we had gotten really close over the months and found her to be quite the good friend)...

"@#$%^, how long is #$%^&* going to be out of the office due to his surgery?" she asked. (sorry about the no-name policy regarding my uber-personal anecdotes)

"Well heavens, I don't quite know. Those hemorrhoids are tricky buggers. But it's his own fault...if he dated women, he wouldn't get those." he responded.

In the blink of an eye, the small amount of admiration flew out the window. Said producer left the office for his event which he apparently did not fully support. The real reason why said producer was going to it, I found out, was that he was pulled over on the PCH late one evening for speeding. The motorcycle cop approached his vehicle as said producer was SCREAMING at the top of his lungs:

"Do you know who I am? Have any idea of who I am young man? I am a producer--A FILM PRODUCER!"

Eerily reminiscent of the Mel Gibson debacle last summer, huh?

The producer berated the cop for nearly ten minutes before being arrested and sentenced to community service. The producer's wife had to come bail him out then drive him back down to the car stranded on the PCH.

Hollywoodland, power-procrastination & the age of indecisiveness

After six years of living in the land of lala, it's amazing how nothing truly gets done out here. I remember one of our guests at the AFI, Mark Canton as he came in and discussed the process of making films and how ridiculous it truly is. My classmates yawned as he churned out a few stories and one in particular regarding Men in Black tickled me with amusement. He was telling us how the VP of development at Sony was high on the film and walked into his office one day blabbering about Men in Black and how it was on the fast track. It wasn't until Mark pulled out this black t-shirt with white stenciled letters on the front that said:

Men in Black
Summer 1994

If memory serves me, the film amassed popularity circa summer of 1997. A 150million dollar followed up in the summer of 2002 that ran an insanely short 88 minutes. I dare you to do the math to figure that one out. Your ass in the seat is precious time and a great cost to the studio.

So, what gives in this day and age of crap filmmaking? Laziness. No one wants to drop a penny and they seem to want the world. The days of the mail room assistant moving up the ranks and securing a production development gig are over. Geffen's story is the most notable when it comes to successes like that. I admire his trials and tribulations. One of the pioneers of the industry has come under fire recently and feel for Mr. Ed Limato and his dealings with ICM. Ed is an old school duck that prides himself with his accomplishments and grooms his assistants for agency positions. Kudos to you Ed for taking the time. You have good karma.

I feel for the system right now. Everyone seems to have the answer, but does one truly exist?

As far as the old adage, keep writing, directing, etc...your talent will prove itself. Not anymore. It seems to be the way of the gun now. Blood spatter cover production company hallways and agency bathroom stalls. There's a tremendous amount of talent out there with shitty representation that don't do anything for their people yet studios keep going to the same incestuous pool of talent that keeps regurgitating the same crap. Crap that brings in the dollars. Sorry to say, but your stories are beginning to tire audiences...

Last summer, I was dealing with a mid-size agency. The agent I had been in touch with was genuine and after countless emails in the middle of the night, I unkowingly Jerry MaGuired my thoughts into one helluva cohesive love letter to the industry. After a great response, I was on their watch list. Then it came down to the firm not wanting to develop new talent but they wanted me to come back after I sold something. Huh! What am I six years old? Do I need to be developed? Yikes. I guess getting into the most cut-throat film school in the world and learning from the best just doesn't complement a solid piece of material enough. It's their loss.

Going back to the Mark Canton story...I remember another about his ex-wife. Ms. Wendy Finerman. She had a gem of a project that circled a couple studios for a long time. People seemed to like it but were scared at the same time. Finally after nearly ten years, the film was greenlit and saw the light of day. Has anyone heard of Forrest Gump? I do believe that film won multiple academy awards and grossed over 300 million domestically.

Remember that old Sprite commercial, one helluva gem...it was a corporate meeting talking about a film, the tagline, product placement, etc...and at the end one of the suits asked:

"What about the script?"

The head suit shakes his head-

"We don't have anything yet but something will be banged out by next week."

Sprite surely summed up this town with that commercial. The controversy of horror films waning out and the ups and downs of audience attendance can be attributed to one word; Quality.

Quality and passionate material has a difficult time surfacing in this town. The struggle to get a film made has dissipated and now the difficulty is getting distribution. This is even an obstacle for executives with a notable track record. It just doesn't make any sense.

Where does Hollywood go from here? The answer is coming soon to a theatre near you.

Bad Breath and Beyond & the Man of Honor

Due to some soon-to-be famous Aussie chick that's been nominated for a Joey Award (errr, as I like to call it, but it's the equivalent of our Golden Globes - fyi) that claims she has stumbled across my blog before while seeking out the infamous Snakes on a Plane blog that began it all last summer...I have decided to seriously embrace this anti-myspace page and vomit my thoughts on a daily basis. One begins to truly question if a tree falls in the woods and no one's around, does it make a sound?

A few weeks ago I found myself wandering into a Bed Bath and Beyond, or as in the title, Bad Breath and Beyond if you will-

I have no idea why I went in there searching for something I didn't need. Guess it was one of my daily jaunts just to get my numbed ass out of the house. Typically, I'd choose to drive to some wayward locale, i.e., the airport or Pasadena or Mullholland Drive. The latter kind of makes me sick to see all the sappy happy couples embrace the final rays of the sunset while holding each other close and whispering sweet nothings in their ears.

"You complete me and I love you more than anyone in this world."

Translation: Do you seriously think you can do better than me? This is afterall the land of opportunity. Witnessing these saccharine moments, I slowly feel diabetes lurking behind.

Bitter? A little bit. But then again, I look back to my sister's wedding. She was a little Bridezilla that day. Let me paint you a picture..

Reaching way back to 2002, I was coming up on my one year of being in los angeles. That past summer, I trained like a madman and worked out like 7 days a week out of boredom. One night in November I went to clear the space between my ears from a relationship that was taxing me. I ended up with a fractured ankle. Ouch.

My sister called like a week later and said that she wanted me to be in her wedding back home in Minneapolis and that I needed a tux. After explaining that I had a cast, she dismissed it with a joke saying that she wanted me as her Man of Honor. WTF? hahahaha.

I arrived back home with tux slung over my shoulder and crutches. At the rehearsal for the wedding, I crutched down the aisle and stood alongside the groomsmen. My sis made her appearance and asked what the hell I was doing on that side?

Typically the men go there. She responded with her wishes of me being her Man of Honor. I laughed out loud and said I thought she was kidding. She laughed out loud and thought that I was joking about my ankle and crutches. (see, we're very good at communicating in my family)

Flashforward to the next night. Music's playing, the guests are cattle-wrangled in and my sis comes up to me with one hell of a humble, sincere look on her face. Were we about to truly bond???

"Today's the day." she said.

"I'm so happy for you jen..."

"Thanks Jack. Thanks for making it a day about me and me alone. No distractions..."

I still feel that air of confusion setting in. In the blink of an eye she swiped my crutches away from me and threw them in the corner-

"I can't have you be that distraction. And don't limp." my loving little sis scurried away.

Hobbling down the aisle, a low whisper swept the cathedral and as I struggled up onto the altar and stood next to her Maid of Honor, my best bud belted out-

"Jack, you're on the wrong side man."

All I could do is shake my head until my mother whispers with tears already flowing-

"He's her man of honor."

I guess in hindsight that was one of those moments that will last a lifetime. Now look at what I've done, as is the night I wandered into Bad Breath and Beyond, I once again wandered out without anything in hand.

Dr. Steve-O may save me!

Peer pressure led me to purchase a blackberry. Ugggghhhh. Now it's a bit of an addiction. Several weeks back I had this odd call on my new blackberry. Not many people have the number, which it made the ones that did feel a bit more special than the ones that had my regular cell. Sorry for the digression.

Blackberry rings:

ring ring

Jack eyes the mysterious number. "Hello?"

"Hi, is this Jack..?" a female voice whispered into my ear.

"Yes-" I replied.

blah blah blah blah "Casting director..."

"Huh?"

"Your sister Jen submitted you for a pilot-"

Bear in mind, my sis, god bless her silly soul, became addicted to reality television after being on NBC's The Biggest Loser last season. Jennifer Eisenbarth--go ahead, myspace and spam her!

Rolling my eyes, asking what my sis did now, for our convos are few and far between holidays and birthdays for whatever reason. The casting director mentions that this new show from the creators of Jackass seem to like what my sis said about me.

They had me submit a paragraph or two about my life. Calling back shortly afterwards, apparently I made them laugh. A lot. I mean seriously...they were ROTFLTAO. Whatever that means, I hope it's not contagious.

Wanting me to come in for an on camera, they insisted on me videotaping a day in my life. Pretty pathetic. They made me see how dorky I truly am.

Flash forward to three weeks later, I was about to give up on those crazy Jackass cats and post my little video short online to see what people thought of my mother's dating tips and the producers called back. They're in the final selection process and needed my social security number to run a background check and said they'd be in touch.

Nervous???

Neh. I just hope they can't track my pornography purchases from days gone by in the great state of Minnesota where we kill a pig when in doubt and deep-fry everything including Twinkies.

Habit forming: Spinning by moonlight

I've got to say that it's been way too long since I made a post here. After a night of one great dialogue and mint tea with, what I have to admit, is one of the most profoundly beautiful souls I have ever met, her eyes remind me of that quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson "The eyes indicate the antiquity of the soul." I can't quite put my finger on it, but losing myself in the discussion of life last eve left me awashed by a calmness I have not drowned in for far too many years. I found myself feeling like I was Robin Williams in Awakenings. The truth is that my eyes have been closed for a long time and now they're open. Guess it was a swift kick in the ass that I needed. Since then I've become inspired to continue what I initially set out to do...

Well, not entirely, but close.

Realizing that we've crossed the threshold of the halfway point of the year, looking back, way back back to the past year, I'm floored with - most everything.

A year of strife mixed with accomplishments, disappointments, joy, pain, happiness and sadness. Would I do it any differently?

No.

Well, maybe I would've handled the lecturing gig at the college a bit different. Lesson learned. Harshly. I probably wouldn't have fallen asleep and let a Slovakian actress drive my ass across the border by mistake either. But then again, it's all about the experience. Oh my, such fond memories of the border patrol, shitty cherries and a three-legged dog!

What else? Too many things to list. I am in the process of not being lazy anymore and have adopted a lifestyle of not holding back. The power of intention seems to be crucial. My father would always preach "Do and mean what you say." Honestly, I never really got what he meant until I found myself not following through on a lot of stuff. Avoidance I guess. We're all guilty of it. Wait, I'll get to that next week...

What about now? The near future? 10 minutes from this very second. This is where the truth lies. Literally and figuratively.

L.A. is the land of cliche and tarnished tinsel. Truth be told. Genuine souls are few and far between. I suggest avoiding people that chew the inside of their cheeks like the plague. They have that look...you know the look? The look of opportunity. The art of being is progressively getting harder to find. Someone should write a song about that...Let it be. !!

I'll be the first to admit that this blog, today's blog offered absolutely nothing and everything about me simulataneously.

There will always be tomorrow. Stay tuned.

Highlander vs. Reality

Waking up this morning to an email discussing another tragic passing has left me scratching my head. Death is imminent, but as my third decade creeps up on me, I am beginning to reflect on my 29 years.

Instead of remembering the Sopranos, I think tomorrow I better start becoming accomplished.