Monday, August 27, 2007

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.


Thursday, August 23, 2007

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...





Tuesday, August 21, 2007

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.

Sunday, August 19, 2007

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.

Saturday, August 18, 2007

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.

Friday, August 17, 2007

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...

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

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.

Monday, August 13, 2007

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.

Saturday, August 11, 2007

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

Friday, August 10, 2007

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.

Thursday, August 09, 2007

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?

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

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.

Tuesday, August 07, 2007

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.

Monday, August 06, 2007

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.

Saturday, August 04, 2007

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.

Thursday, August 02, 2007

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.

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

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.