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---
Monday, July 30, 2007
Thursday, July 26, 2007
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....
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....
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
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.
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.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
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.
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.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
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.
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.
Friday, July 20, 2007
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
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
Thursday, July 19, 2007
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.
"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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
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.
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.
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