Over the past year I've become more and more intolerant of overcooked corn on the cob. It's getting really bad--to the point where I am filled with a murderous, eye-piercing rage when the stuff comes near me. Why oh why must they ruin such a tasty treat by overboiling it? Corn should be kind of crunchy when you bite into it. It should be sweet and flavorful and come off the cob cleanly--it should not be a soft and pulpy mass that sticks in your teeth. It makes me weep, it does. When K and I were in Houston we went to a ribs place and filled up with a bunch of beautiful sides--including a huge ear of corn that had been soaking in warm water all evening. Inedible. It ruined my whole day. I am serious here. It still makes me angry thinking about it.
The key is not overcooking it. As when baking cookies, one must remove them from the fire BEFORE they are done. If one pulls the cookies out of the oven WHEN they are done, then they'll continue to cook and harden into hockey pucks on the cooling rack. Do not wait until the cookies are done before pulling them out. Please do not wait. Pull them out a little early. Please, I beg of you.
Sunday night I was at a party and was startled to be served some good corn on the cob. That I was so startled and exuberant about it was startling in itself, so today we shall blog about it. Granted, they tried to offer me those prissy corn holders to jab into the ends of my ear--which was nearly a dealbreaker--but I declined politely and barehanded the corn into my face where it belongs. What kind of wimpy suburbanite uses corn holders, anyway? I mean, really.
By the way, I'm trying to start a movement to make corn a countable noun. Granted, it's a bad habit I got into while living in Japan, but it is not without merit.
How many corns will you serve your family tonight?
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Monday, May 23, 2005
Whither the Slam?
I first heard about slam poetry my freshman year of university. It's possible this first happened my senior year of high school, but the high concentration of cowpoke students at Fife High School makes this unlikely. Slam poetry sounded just brilliant. The way I understood it, slam poetry would be performance poetry for the masses. It would be poetry removed from the polite ass-kissing of the academy. It would encourage audience participation and rowdiness and people would get booed if they dared to bring something lame up onstage. It would be jousty and medieval and kind of punk rock too. And, best of all, it would be a COMPETITION.
Was this all a dream? I've never ever seen an event like this. Ever. Did I just make this up in my head? Because it's a great idea if I did. I will buy a bar and put these rowdy events on.
There's a new coffee shop up on 6th called (appropriately) "Coffee on 6th." It's run by two African American women and it's sandwiched between a Carl's Jr and a Korean video store filled with illegal VHS dubs of all the latest hits. "Coffee on 6th" seems kind of out of place here in this Latin K-Town, but I'm glad that they've moved in and I go up there for a coffee on my days off. There's a sign that says "Urban Poets" and one that says "Dialect" and one of the women says they have slam poetry on Saturday nights, so I decided to support the cause and check it out.
Judges were instructed to rate performances on a scale of 1 to 10 (with 5 being average), but in the end there were just three numbers utilized. An 8 meant something was mediocre or crappy. A 9 meant it was decent. A 10 meant it was pretty good. So everyone got great scores. And everyone was so darn SUPPORTIVE (until later when they could snipe to their friends, I'm sure). At the time, though, it was a major lovefest. The only people who got booed were the judges for giving people 9s instead of 10s. It's not that I'm out for blood or anything. Or spectacle. It just seems like Competition Lite, if you know what I mean. Competition without the competition, without the risk of humiliation. Why do a slam then? Why not just have a friendly poetry reading and get on with your life?
By far the best performance was by a short black woman who did a poem about her fat boot. All of the other poets had the same delivery--the bowl-over-the-audience-with-their-intense-white-hot-ball-of-rage effect--but this woman was calm and smart and funny and had the audience eating out of her hand. She singlehandedly made the "slam" worthwhile. She was wonderful--really hilarious--and I enjoyed her poem very much (even though it didn't rhyme). :)
But the whole event (like most other poetry events in the world, I suspect) was way too benign. I want this thing to exist--this version of the poetry slam thing I have in my head--but I don't think it will ever come around. There will be readings and then polite reactions and back clapping and hugging and then later (only later) will come the backbiting and the jealousy and the two-facery and feelings of cheatedness and then the lashing out and "he's so overrated" and the gossip mill will churn. But only later. Never during the slam itself. We have manners here.
Me, I'm gonna go watch some MCs battle.
Was this all a dream? I've never ever seen an event like this. Ever. Did I just make this up in my head? Because it's a great idea if I did. I will buy a bar and put these rowdy events on.
There's a new coffee shop up on 6th called (appropriately) "Coffee on 6th." It's run by two African American women and it's sandwiched between a Carl's Jr and a Korean video store filled with illegal VHS dubs of all the latest hits. "Coffee on 6th" seems kind of out of place here in this Latin K-Town, but I'm glad that they've moved in and I go up there for a coffee on my days off. There's a sign that says "Urban Poets" and one that says "Dialect" and one of the women says they have slam poetry on Saturday nights, so I decided to support the cause and check it out.
Judges were instructed to rate performances on a scale of 1 to 10 (with 5 being average), but in the end there were just three numbers utilized. An 8 meant something was mediocre or crappy. A 9 meant it was decent. A 10 meant it was pretty good. So everyone got great scores. And everyone was so darn SUPPORTIVE (until later when they could snipe to their friends, I'm sure). At the time, though, it was a major lovefest. The only people who got booed were the judges for giving people 9s instead of 10s. It's not that I'm out for blood or anything. Or spectacle. It just seems like Competition Lite, if you know what I mean. Competition without the competition, without the risk of humiliation. Why do a slam then? Why not just have a friendly poetry reading and get on with your life?
By far the best performance was by a short black woman who did a poem about her fat boot. All of the other poets had the same delivery--the bowl-over-the-audience-with-their-intense-white-hot-ball-of-rage effect--but this woman was calm and smart and funny and had the audience eating out of her hand. She singlehandedly made the "slam" worthwhile. She was wonderful--really hilarious--and I enjoyed her poem very much (even though it didn't rhyme). :)
But the whole event (like most other poetry events in the world, I suspect) was way too benign. I want this thing to exist--this version of the poetry slam thing I have in my head--but I don't think it will ever come around. There will be readings and then polite reactions and back clapping and hugging and then later (only later) will come the backbiting and the jealousy and the two-facery and feelings of cheatedness and then the lashing out and "he's so overrated" and the gossip mill will churn. But only later. Never during the slam itself. We have manners here.
Me, I'm gonna go watch some MCs battle.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Sad Girls
I must admit that I am drawn to sad girls. Sad girls have the unexpected effect of making Sleepy E feel downright positive. Suddenly he is full of life and vigor and purpose! And the purpose, dear readers, is to make these sad girls understand the shimmering brilliance of our existence.
Say what?
Seriously, though, I just don't trust anyone who is too positive. There is nothing more relentlessly draining and stressful than having to be positive all the time. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, not even my enemies. I can't figure how these boppy LA bims do it all the time without indulging in a good brooding funk now and again.
Lately I've been seeing quite a few women sobbing in public. One I saw in her car waiting at a stoplight, one was at the store, one was at Carl's Jr (insert your own joke here). Sobbing women are not attractive, but Benevolent E is still drawn to them. I want to help them. I wouldn't say I want to reform them, like the foolish women who want to catch the most dangerous, sexy men around and modify their behavior--"I can change him, I WILL change him!" And I wouldn't say that I find their distress intoxicating or alluring in any way. And I definitely wouldn't put any moves on these people. But I do want to help them. I want them to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative--some very foreign concepts that suddenly feel right at home in my noggin. If only I can cheer them up then I will be useful.
I also like women with big noses, but that is another story. And women dressed up in the cold of winter (the boots, the long scarf, the cute stocking cap, the mittens). There is nothing better than a Northwesterly sad girl with a big nose coming in out of the wintry night.
A side question for the ladies: When I first entered my very PC university, I was chastised at a party for referring to someone as a "girl." The girl (or grrrrl or woman or womyn) in question was probably 18 years old and still very much a girl, but I took the lesson to heart and have been calling any female of majority a "woman" ever since. Now that I'm in my mid-30s, however, I find myself backsliding and referring to women my age as "girls" again. Is this still incorrect or upsetting? It feels right somehow--now that we are all fast approaching middle age. I mean, I'll call them whatever they want--"ma'am" or "mistress" or even "master"--if it makes them more inclined to talk to me.
Say what?
Seriously, though, I just don't trust anyone who is too positive. There is nothing more relentlessly draining and stressful than having to be positive all the time. I wouldn't wish it on anyone, not even my enemies. I can't figure how these boppy LA bims do it all the time without indulging in a good brooding funk now and again.
Lately I've been seeing quite a few women sobbing in public. One I saw in her car waiting at a stoplight, one was at the store, one was at Carl's Jr (insert your own joke here). Sobbing women are not attractive, but Benevolent E is still drawn to them. I want to help them. I wouldn't say I want to reform them, like the foolish women who want to catch the most dangerous, sexy men around and modify their behavior--"I can change him, I WILL change him!" And I wouldn't say that I find their distress intoxicating or alluring in any way. And I definitely wouldn't put any moves on these people. But I do want to help them. I want them to accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative--some very foreign concepts that suddenly feel right at home in my noggin. If only I can cheer them up then I will be useful.
I also like women with big noses, but that is another story. And women dressed up in the cold of winter (the boots, the long scarf, the cute stocking cap, the mittens). There is nothing better than a Northwesterly sad girl with a big nose coming in out of the wintry night.
A side question for the ladies: When I first entered my very PC university, I was chastised at a party for referring to someone as a "girl." The girl (or grrrrl or woman or womyn) in question was probably 18 years old and still very much a girl, but I took the lesson to heart and have been calling any female of majority a "woman" ever since. Now that I'm in my mid-30s, however, I find myself backsliding and referring to women my age as "girls" again. Is this still incorrect or upsetting? It feels right somehow--now that we are all fast approaching middle age. I mean, I'll call them whatever they want--"ma'am" or "mistress" or even "master"--if it makes them more inclined to talk to me.
The Middle-oke Music Video
The FCC cut of “The Middle-oke Music Video: A Sleepy E Joint” is finally here! Footage was shot on my garbagey consumer mini-DV camera and looks verisimilitudinously dark, low-rez, and bleary.
There are two versions available: an .mp4 and an .avi. The avi seems slightly higher rez and therefore more pixelated, whereas the mp4 is a little less blocky. Don’t get me wrong, they both have that snuff film aesthetic—view full screen at your own risk. Please let me know if you can’t get either of these to work.
Spoiler: Do not let the ear-shattering finale catch you unawares.
Cheers!
There are two versions available: an .mp4 and an .avi. The avi seems slightly higher rez and therefore more pixelated, whereas the mp4 is a little less blocky. Don’t get me wrong, they both have that snuff film aesthetic—view full screen at your own risk. Please let me know if you can’t get either of these to work.
Spoiler: Do not let the ear-shattering finale catch you unawares.
Cheers!
Friday, May 20, 2005
T to the P
"Cuz the boyz in the hood are always hard;
Keep talking that trash and we'll TP your crib."
--NWA "Boyz in the Hood"
When Middlebrow was in town we had a long conversation about whether wine coolers still exist. I am fascinated by wine coolers and their parent companies' brazen attempts to capture the underage market. My question to Middlebrow was this: Do wine coolers still exist in the quantity that they did when we were in high school? Or is it that we just don't notice them anymore? It's not unlike the phenomenon of buying a new car and then suddenly noticing that make and model everywhere around town--but in reverse. Do we cease to notice it or does it really just not exist? Or does our not-noticing somehow contribute to its nonexistence?
Every time we went to the store we forgot to follow up on this query. We agree that Seagrams and Bartles & James probably still exist in small tasteful quantities, but the days of the 2-liter Blueberry California Cooler are over. Rawq and I often comment that we were born at a perfect time in earth's history: children before and at the onset of computers as to have a rollicking, outdoorsy, cowboy-n-indian childhood, while allowing the conveniences of computers and the Internet to shape our adulthood. I think wine coolers were even more serendipitous. We were born at the perfect time--to witness and experience the wine cooler spike in its full glory, Kool-Aid-n-Booze for the underage set, sheer perfection.
I have similar thoughts about the craft of TPing houses. Again: Is this something that does not exist anymore or is it that I'm not-noticing it into nonexistence? The bored Friday nights, the spontaneous "plan," the caravan of cars to the store and subsequent piling in to one or two overloaded vehicles, the mountainous purchase of store-brand toilet paper, the inevitable jokes about "having the runs," the checker's knowing nod and smile, the half-run to the parking lot, the Mafiaesque drive and formulation of "strategy," the parking a block away, the walking in, the separation into "throwers" and "wrappers," the launching of TP into trees, over branches, the flutter of the paper in the air when thrown just right, the dull thud of the remaining half-roll landing down in the grass beyond. Does this still go on in the world?
Well, I've learned that it does. I was playing basketball off of Hoover, down in that low-income area north of USC and south of the 10. And there, off to my right, a small house with a chain-link fence and a dried-up postage-stamp yard sat, festooned with Charmin. Billowing in the breeze, if you will. Done up right, rolled, TPed--kind of festive, actually, in its own weird way. The whole thing struck me as very odd when removed from its (my) "Sixteen Candles" suburban context and its (my) mid-to-late eighties time frame. It reminded me of seeing incongruous hair bands and gangster rap in Japan. If there is any question whether a pop cultural practice is truly ridiculous, export it to another culture and see how it plays. Somehow this distills the activity to its very essence, where you can get right to the ridiculousness without hindrance.
Japanese rappers surrounded by low riders bouncing up and down, American women taking a perfectly good Chinese character--"harmony" for example--and getting it tritely tattooed right above their buttcracks, Shakira doing her Britney/Christina imitation but even more so, well, it all feels kind of the same. Give me urban TPing any day of the week. Give me a carload of thugs saying, "F*** the drive-by, let's TP that guy's house! Yeee-uh!" Imagine this. Imagine a future where people break into someone's yard...just to wrap it up with toilet paper. No more tweekers cooking up crystal meth in their kitchens or kids tagging public buildings. Just toilet paper trailing through the air, hushed whispering, then a light inside and a deep "Hey!", followed by a laughing, scurrying retreat out the front and a stumbly exuberant flight back to the caravan.
And in the morning that dive looks like a cheerful, house-sized, standstill parade. Then they clean it up.
Keep talking that trash and we'll TP your crib."
--NWA "Boyz in the Hood"
When Middlebrow was in town we had a long conversation about whether wine coolers still exist. I am fascinated by wine coolers and their parent companies' brazen attempts to capture the underage market. My question to Middlebrow was this: Do wine coolers still exist in the quantity that they did when we were in high school? Or is it that we just don't notice them anymore? It's not unlike the phenomenon of buying a new car and then suddenly noticing that make and model everywhere around town--but in reverse. Do we cease to notice it or does it really just not exist? Or does our not-noticing somehow contribute to its nonexistence?
Every time we went to the store we forgot to follow up on this query. We agree that Seagrams and Bartles & James probably still exist in small tasteful quantities, but the days of the 2-liter Blueberry California Cooler are over. Rawq and I often comment that we were born at a perfect time in earth's history: children before and at the onset of computers as to have a rollicking, outdoorsy, cowboy-n-indian childhood, while allowing the conveniences of computers and the Internet to shape our adulthood. I think wine coolers were even more serendipitous. We were born at the perfect time--to witness and experience the wine cooler spike in its full glory, Kool-Aid-n-Booze for the underage set, sheer perfection.
I have similar thoughts about the craft of TPing houses. Again: Is this something that does not exist anymore or is it that I'm not-noticing it into nonexistence? The bored Friday nights, the spontaneous "plan," the caravan of cars to the store and subsequent piling in to one or two overloaded vehicles, the mountainous purchase of store-brand toilet paper, the inevitable jokes about "having the runs," the checker's knowing nod and smile, the half-run to the parking lot, the Mafiaesque drive and formulation of "strategy," the parking a block away, the walking in, the separation into "throwers" and "wrappers," the launching of TP into trees, over branches, the flutter of the paper in the air when thrown just right, the dull thud of the remaining half-roll landing down in the grass beyond. Does this still go on in the world?
Well, I've learned that it does. I was playing basketball off of Hoover, down in that low-income area north of USC and south of the 10. And there, off to my right, a small house with a chain-link fence and a dried-up postage-stamp yard sat, festooned with Charmin. Billowing in the breeze, if you will. Done up right, rolled, TPed--kind of festive, actually, in its own weird way. The whole thing struck me as very odd when removed from its (my) "Sixteen Candles" suburban context and its (my) mid-to-late eighties time frame. It reminded me of seeing incongruous hair bands and gangster rap in Japan. If there is any question whether a pop cultural practice is truly ridiculous, export it to another culture and see how it plays. Somehow this distills the activity to its very essence, where you can get right to the ridiculousness without hindrance.
Japanese rappers surrounded by low riders bouncing up and down, American women taking a perfectly good Chinese character--"harmony" for example--and getting it tritely tattooed right above their buttcracks, Shakira doing her Britney/Christina imitation but even more so, well, it all feels kind of the same. Give me urban TPing any day of the week. Give me a carload of thugs saying, "F*** the drive-by, let's TP that guy's house! Yeee-uh!" Imagine this. Imagine a future where people break into someone's yard...just to wrap it up with toilet paper. No more tweekers cooking up crystal meth in their kitchens or kids tagging public buildings. Just toilet paper trailing through the air, hushed whispering, then a light inside and a deep "Hey!", followed by a laughing, scurrying retreat out the front and a stumbly exuberant flight back to the caravan.
And in the morning that dive looks like a cheerful, house-sized, standstill parade. Then they clean it up.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
What's In Your iPod/CD Player/8-Track?
In the ongoing effort to discover new music and rediscover old music, I encourage the Front Porch Readership to come out and reveal those records in their iPod/CD player/8-track that are getting the most play these days.
Anyone who says "LL" will be removed from this forum.
Sleepy E will go first:
1. Beck "Guero"
2. Aimee Mann "The Forgotten Arm"
3. Arcade Fire "The Funeral"
4. Inara George "All Rise"
5. Doves "Some Cities"
All of which are quite good, I might add.
Thanks for listening.
The Management
Anyone who says "LL" will be removed from this forum.
Sleepy E will go first:
1. Beck "Guero"
2. Aimee Mann "The Forgotten Arm"
3. Arcade Fire "The Funeral"
4. Inara George "All Rise"
5. Doves "Some Cities"
All of which are quite good, I might add.
Thanks for listening.
The Management
Parking For Dollars
Monday I went to Cedars-Sinai to visit my new doctor. I parked in the hospital parking garage, got my ticket, went inside, had a physical, discovered they did not validate (parking, that is), came out an hour later, presented my stub to the parking attendant, and shelled out a whopping $8.25 for my hourly rental of a space.
In the past I've noticed a gradual movement away from free parking in general toward a more restrictive, validation-required parking system. Now I'm seeing a movement away from that. Malls (The Grove, Hollywood and Highland) will not validate anymore. They are leaning toward a flat, fee-based parking system that buys you a spot for two or three hours. They don't want to keep the meter on while you park because that would discourage you from lingering at the mall and spending more money there. But they don't want to be cheated out of their parking money either (the consumer needs to pay, you know, for this privelege of shopping, after all) so they charge a flat rate. Paying to pay. Interesting.
The hospital stands to gain nothing from keeping you there and lingering (one is not likely to have some impulse X-rays or a last-minute MRI) so they just keep the meter running on you. Am I being sensitive, or is there something fundamentally wrong with charging a patient $8 an hour to park his car while he sees his primary physician? It's like, "Gee, I'd really love to discover if this huge growth on my back is malignant, but I can't afford to park here anymore! See ya!"
And don't get me started on valets. I could be wrong, but I think LA has more valets than any other city in the world. What other city has such a car culture yet is still so compromised for space? I've been thinking about doing a long-range documentary like "Dig!" or "Hoop Dreams" (four or five years) and I think a documentary about LA valets could be worthwhile. Thoughts?
In the past I've noticed a gradual movement away from free parking in general toward a more restrictive, validation-required parking system. Now I'm seeing a movement away from that. Malls (The Grove, Hollywood and Highland) will not validate anymore. They are leaning toward a flat, fee-based parking system that buys you a spot for two or three hours. They don't want to keep the meter on while you park because that would discourage you from lingering at the mall and spending more money there. But they don't want to be cheated out of their parking money either (the consumer needs to pay, you know, for this privelege of shopping, after all) so they charge a flat rate. Paying to pay. Interesting.
The hospital stands to gain nothing from keeping you there and lingering (one is not likely to have some impulse X-rays or a last-minute MRI) so they just keep the meter running on you. Am I being sensitive, or is there something fundamentally wrong with charging a patient $8 an hour to park his car while he sees his primary physician? It's like, "Gee, I'd really love to discover if this huge growth on my back is malignant, but I can't afford to park here anymore! See ya!"
And don't get me started on valets. I could be wrong, but I think LA has more valets than any other city in the world. What other city has such a car culture yet is still so compromised for space? I've been thinking about doing a long-range documentary like "Dig!" or "Hoop Dreams" (four or five years) and I think a documentary about LA valets could be worthwhile. Thoughts?
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
Art Is Bad For You
"The ones who are successful have a great passion and that may mean to the exclusion of other things. There's a trade-off between focus and peripheral vision, in my mind. In order to have greater focus, you're going to give up something. There's a trade-off between focusing deeply on a single subject versus generalists who are good at many things. The people who tend to be successful are the ones who have the ability to have that focus to create something that is unique and of value."
--Bill Leipold
Owner, Columbine Plastics
Boulder, Colorado
from "Way of the Puck"
Lately I've been thinking about all the directing jobs I'm going to get when "Way of the Puck" blows up and becomes 2006's "Super Size Me." We crewpeople like to say that the director is the only person on set who can be employed without having any actual skillsets. This sounds just perfect. I can do this. I can hang out at the monitor with all of the producers and clients, then make the long walk onto set, lean into the lead actress' ear, and whisper: "Give me a little bit more on this one. Just a bit. Really feel it now." Or: "Bring it back just a hair for me. I want to sense you boiling within, you know? Bring up all of that great energy but don't let it out. Don't let it out." I can do this, I can do this.
Seriously though, I can do this. For a first-time director I do feel uniquely qualified for this job, having worked right next to hundreds of directors in the past. I can take the best and worst bits from all of these directors and swagger around without feeling too much like an impostor. The one thing I have learned is that I will work fast. I will shoot four to six pages a day. Working fast gets you better performances and a more involved crew, but most of all it gives you a sense of forward movement and keeps you in touch with the movie as a whole entity--today you are shooting this and this and this and this comes tomorrow. Although many would envy a cushy "Lawrence of Arabia" or "Spanglish" style shooting schedule, I think in the end you become disconnected from the whole--from the narrative thrust of it all--and just go about creating these separate, self-contained scenes that won't really cut together.
I imagine the same goes for novel writing as well. Which is why I believe the August novel-writing enterprise will produce better, more explosive work--in an eensy month--than a dragged-out, two-year revision fest.
Which brings me to my point: You can't have a balanced life and be a good (and productive) artist. These things are mutually exclusive. For years I thought otherwise. For years I thought the image of the tortured writer (locked in a room, banging out his masterpiece in a single burst of genius) was totally ridiculous. I subscribed to the original Scott Turrow system (forty-five minutes on the commute to work, forty-five minutes on the way home). Just put in your two or three pages a day and you'd finish sooner or later. The problem is that there is so much starting and stopping that you never really get to immerse fully in the project.
This is what I've learned doing the movie. If I had actually tried to have a balanced life or functional relationships I'd NEVER get done (sure, maybe the quality of the work itself might improve, you could argue that...but then again maybe it'll get worse). I'd be working on this thing until 2007.
Art is bad for you. Art is like working on a fishing boat in Alaska. You go out and work six hours on and six hours off for three months straight. Maybe you make $75,000. Maybe you make nothing. Maybe you fall overboard or get sick and die or maybe you have your hand cut off because you were flirting with someone's woman in a bar with a sawdust-covered floor. Very unhealthy behavior, all of this.
So anyway, over the past couple of days there's been a long-awaited return to normalcy. The movie is winding down now and Sleep's got a couple of days off from work. So off to the doctor and the dentist (no problems, no cavities, Sleepy E is in amazing health--more evidence of God's existence), reading again, doing some cooking, studying Japanese, lounging at the coffee shop, hitting up the Old Navy for the annual purchase of cargo shorts, taking pictures, running three times a week, even contemplating reentering the dating world.
Just look at all of the fun and healthy activities one can participate in when he's not working on some shitty, long term, life-ruining project! Ole!
--Bill Leipold
Owner, Columbine Plastics
Boulder, Colorado
from "Way of the Puck"
Lately I've been thinking about all the directing jobs I'm going to get when "Way of the Puck" blows up and becomes 2006's "Super Size Me." We crewpeople like to say that the director is the only person on set who can be employed without having any actual skillsets. This sounds just perfect. I can do this. I can hang out at the monitor with all of the producers and clients, then make the long walk onto set, lean into the lead actress' ear, and whisper: "Give me a little bit more on this one. Just a bit. Really feel it now." Or: "Bring it back just a hair for me. I want to sense you boiling within, you know? Bring up all of that great energy but don't let it out. Don't let it out." I can do this, I can do this.
Seriously though, I can do this. For a first-time director I do feel uniquely qualified for this job, having worked right next to hundreds of directors in the past. I can take the best and worst bits from all of these directors and swagger around without feeling too much like an impostor. The one thing I have learned is that I will work fast. I will shoot four to six pages a day. Working fast gets you better performances and a more involved crew, but most of all it gives you a sense of forward movement and keeps you in touch with the movie as a whole entity--today you are shooting this and this and this and this comes tomorrow. Although many would envy a cushy "Lawrence of Arabia" or "Spanglish" style shooting schedule, I think in the end you become disconnected from the whole--from the narrative thrust of it all--and just go about creating these separate, self-contained scenes that won't really cut together.
I imagine the same goes for novel writing as well. Which is why I believe the August novel-writing enterprise will produce better, more explosive work--in an eensy month--than a dragged-out, two-year revision fest.
Which brings me to my point: You can't have a balanced life and be a good (and productive) artist. These things are mutually exclusive. For years I thought otherwise. For years I thought the image of the tortured writer (locked in a room, banging out his masterpiece in a single burst of genius) was totally ridiculous. I subscribed to the original Scott Turrow system (forty-five minutes on the commute to work, forty-five minutes on the way home). Just put in your two or three pages a day and you'd finish sooner or later. The problem is that there is so much starting and stopping that you never really get to immerse fully in the project.
This is what I've learned doing the movie. If I had actually tried to have a balanced life or functional relationships I'd NEVER get done (sure, maybe the quality of the work itself might improve, you could argue that...but then again maybe it'll get worse). I'd be working on this thing until 2007.
Art is bad for you. Art is like working on a fishing boat in Alaska. You go out and work six hours on and six hours off for three months straight. Maybe you make $75,000. Maybe you make nothing. Maybe you fall overboard or get sick and die or maybe you have your hand cut off because you were flirting with someone's woman in a bar with a sawdust-covered floor. Very unhealthy behavior, all of this.
So anyway, over the past couple of days there's been a long-awaited return to normalcy. The movie is winding down now and Sleep's got a couple of days off from work. So off to the doctor and the dentist (no problems, no cavities, Sleepy E is in amazing health--more evidence of God's existence), reading again, doing some cooking, studying Japanese, lounging at the coffee shop, hitting up the Old Navy for the annual purchase of cargo shorts, taking pictures, running three times a week, even contemplating reentering the dating world.
Just look at all of the fun and healthy activities one can participate in when he's not working on some shitty, long term, life-ruining project! Ole!
Sunday, May 15, 2005
The Police Are Coming For You!
Ole Sleep had a rough week but now he's back and blogging again, thank the Lord.
So it's Thursday night and my two Friend/Assistants R and D and I are lounging in Whiskey Pete's 24-hour coffee shop waiting for some service. It's coming up on midnight and there seems to be only one server working the place, an old and mustachioed guy named Terry who doesn't seem particularly seasoned and is probably waiting tables to augment a social security check. Whiskey Pete's is one of the two low-rent casinos in the bordertown of Primm, Nevada. Whiskey Pete's is the one on the west side of the 15. Buffalo Bill's is on the other. Who here has seen the Kurt Russell/Jack Warden classic "Used Cars"? If you've seen that then you probably get the idea. Both seem to be vying for the title of Most Horribleist Casino in the World.
We've been doing an Incubus video way out in the middle of Dumont Dunes, a good hour and a half from Whiskey P's in Death Valley. Friday we will be broken in half by the environment, short-staffedness, and take after soul-grinding take of manufactured sandstorms. For now, though, things are fine and the absurdity of overnighting in a casinito keeps us in light spirits. R acknowledges his Asian gambling gene and disappears for ten or fifteen minutes at a time to donate his per diem to The Whiskey Pete's Fund For Underpriveleged Children.
A large hulking man in his mid-thirties is crashed out in the table next to us. He has been sleeping there for at least forty-five minutes. I know this because this is how long it takes us to get our food. The man is huge and simian. He reminds me of Mickey Roarke in "Sin City," without the bad Botox for an excuse. He is halfway through a steak; his knife is right next to his hand and his overstuffed, bulging wallet rests on the edge of the table where anyone could nab it. A trap, maybe? We think about waking the guy up so he can finish his discounted meal but worry about potential military flashbacks inducing reactive choke holds, eye stabs, and throat chops.
Eventually management arrives and tries to rouse and roust our slumbering friend. She pushes on his meaty shoulder a few times, intoning "Sir, sir, SIR" with increasing volume and intensity. As soon as she spins around to find security, a bespectacled and wily white-haired old man leaps out of a neighboring table and lands down right next to Roarke. "The police are coming for you!!!" he growls in the guy's ear. "You better get out of here. The cops are coming to get you!"
Then, amazingly, he retreats in a blur and reseats himself at his table, acting as if nothing has happened...while a sputtering, rubbernecking Roarke comes to life, looking around frantically. "They've called the cops already and they're coming to take you away!" the old man continues. At this point a young and distressed short-haired blonde girl materializes at Roarke's table. "Where have you been?" she cries. "It's one in the morning and I've been looking all over for you!" She looks like she's twenty years younger than he. She's kind of cute but her skin is bad and I wonder what kind of a painful life she's had already had up to this point.
Roarke is awake but not lucid exactly and after a couple of minutes he notices our entire table (and the rest of the restaurant) watching him. He stands at the edge of our booth, wobbling, and starts the long and involved process of introductions and handshaking. What is this drunk thing about shaking hands? So he shakes everyone's hand except for a production assistant who has joined us. "I have a broken finger," he says, holding up his splint as proof. "Don't be a pussy," says our friend The Bohemoth. The man looms, pushing up against our booth. Anything can happen here. It's kind of pleasurable to know this. Maybe he'll choke out one of us just yet.
So it's Thursday night and my two Friend/Assistants R and D and I are lounging in Whiskey Pete's 24-hour coffee shop waiting for some service. It's coming up on midnight and there seems to be only one server working the place, an old and mustachioed guy named Terry who doesn't seem particularly seasoned and is probably waiting tables to augment a social security check. Whiskey Pete's is one of the two low-rent casinos in the bordertown of Primm, Nevada. Whiskey Pete's is the one on the west side of the 15. Buffalo Bill's is on the other. Who here has seen the Kurt Russell/Jack Warden classic "Used Cars"? If you've seen that then you probably get the idea. Both seem to be vying for the title of Most Horribleist Casino in the World.
We've been doing an Incubus video way out in the middle of Dumont Dunes, a good hour and a half from Whiskey P's in Death Valley. Friday we will be broken in half by the environment, short-staffedness, and take after soul-grinding take of manufactured sandstorms. For now, though, things are fine and the absurdity of overnighting in a casinito keeps us in light spirits. R acknowledges his Asian gambling gene and disappears for ten or fifteen minutes at a time to donate his per diem to The Whiskey Pete's Fund For Underpriveleged Children.
A large hulking man in his mid-thirties is crashed out in the table next to us. He has been sleeping there for at least forty-five minutes. I know this because this is how long it takes us to get our food. The man is huge and simian. He reminds me of Mickey Roarke in "Sin City," without the bad Botox for an excuse. He is halfway through a steak; his knife is right next to his hand and his overstuffed, bulging wallet rests on the edge of the table where anyone could nab it. A trap, maybe? We think about waking the guy up so he can finish his discounted meal but worry about potential military flashbacks inducing reactive choke holds, eye stabs, and throat chops.
Eventually management arrives and tries to rouse and roust our slumbering friend. She pushes on his meaty shoulder a few times, intoning "Sir, sir, SIR" with increasing volume and intensity. As soon as she spins around to find security, a bespectacled and wily white-haired old man leaps out of a neighboring table and lands down right next to Roarke. "The police are coming for you!!!" he growls in the guy's ear. "You better get out of here. The cops are coming to get you!"
Then, amazingly, he retreats in a blur and reseats himself at his table, acting as if nothing has happened...while a sputtering, rubbernecking Roarke comes to life, looking around frantically. "They've called the cops already and they're coming to take you away!" the old man continues. At this point a young and distressed short-haired blonde girl materializes at Roarke's table. "Where have you been?" she cries. "It's one in the morning and I've been looking all over for you!" She looks like she's twenty years younger than he. She's kind of cute but her skin is bad and I wonder what kind of a painful life she's had already had up to this point.
Roarke is awake but not lucid exactly and after a couple of minutes he notices our entire table (and the rest of the restaurant) watching him. He stands at the edge of our booth, wobbling, and starts the long and involved process of introductions and handshaking. What is this drunk thing about shaking hands? So he shakes everyone's hand except for a production assistant who has joined us. "I have a broken finger," he says, holding up his splint as proof. "Don't be a pussy," says our friend The Bohemoth. The man looms, pushing up against our booth. Anything can happen here. It's kind of pleasurable to know this. Maybe he'll choke out one of us just yet.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Herbie Goes Apesh*t
Is that someone you used to date
Why she's hanging around here, what's her story
Doesn't she know that its too late
That the party is over and the cars full, hey
Why dont u tell her what's been going on
Cuz she seems to be dreaming instead of just leaving
If you don't have the heart to fill her in
Then just step aside and let me lay it on the line
Cuz your mine
And tonight you dont revolve around here
Your mine
And this time I'm gonna scream a little louder
[Chorus:]
Dont wanna be like
Every other girl in the world
Like every other one who wants you
Cuz when I see you something inside me burns
And then I realise I wanna come first
I wanna come first
I made a promise not to blog about music videos anymore but Middlebrow has convinced me to finish up the abandoned book project "Out of Focus," so I must relearn how to write of these trivial things. Word of this Lindsay Lohan video debacle is already spreading fast. People I don't even know are coming up to ask me about it.
First of all, I must report that video is a tie-in for the upcoming Herbie retread "Herbie: Fully Loaded." LL is an interesting choice for Disney because she has been self-destructing in the tabloids for a good year now. Surely they must worry about LL's rumored substance abuse problem and Brandoesque antics on set? And how about these lyrics? "I wanna come first"? "This time I'm gonna scream a little louder"? I'm sure all her preteen fans think this bad-girl behavior is really subversive and cool but what about the Christian mothers who expect a certain standard of age-appropriate role modelry from their Disney product? Who is this LL succubus they are parading in front of them?
LL was on particularly bad behavior, whining and complaining and giving the extremely cool, extremely seasoned (and English) director a tough time from the outset. They've done a couple of videos together before and he's handled her but she was even worse than normal, rolling her eyes at his direction and even calling him out in front of the whole crew, claiming she wasn't getting any direction at all. You can't have it both ways, girl.
So the director finally snapped back at her, because he will kiss her bum to a point but after that he's the director and he's there to shoot this poxy pop promo, goddamnit. Well, LL didn't like that and stormed off. We had lunch and she never came out of her trailer after. The next night she came on set five hours into the day, did one shot and then left, saying "Sorry guys!" as earnestly as she could. She looked a little glazed, indeed, and we had a nice long inactive day to theorize on her personal life.
So we have to go back next Wednesday for one last day of shooting. But what if she doesn't come? What if she acts up? What then? Do they just call it off? My guess is that she's costing them somewhere in between $100,000 and $150,000 a day. How much will they take?
Indeed, this seems to be the underlying MO of the Pack, that group of ten or so handlers that follow LL around (including her manager, security, and hangers on). I blame them more than I actually blame LL. She is only eighteen, of course, and dimwitted and impetuous and heedless...but still only eighteen. These people seem to understand well that LL has a limited lifespan, that she will not make the transition out of the adolescent film and music markets into something more adult and long lasting. She has two, maybe three years ahead of her and they are trying to milk every single nickel out of her until she (and her career) collapses.
This is a picture of Renata, the very likeable Brazilian PA who was forced not only to stand-in for LL, but to sing and gyrate as well so that the creative teams could work out the camera and choreography cues. I can't think of anything too much more humiliating than that. My favorite bit was when she had to kind of crawl over Herbie's hood (hints of Whitesnake?) while singing to the camera. Her halfhearted attempts to mimic LL's teen sexuality were so awkward that in the end she actually was pretty durn sexy.
This is a picture of my assistant, R, who was paid $150 to be one of the background drivers in the scene. I skimmed off 33% of that, in true Mafioso fashion. Is it a coincidence that he looks like Bruce Lee in "Game of Death"?
This is a picture of a bewildered Sleepy E, who just cannot believe what he sees.
Why she's hanging around here, what's her story
Doesn't she know that its too late
That the party is over and the cars full, hey
Why dont u tell her what's been going on
Cuz she seems to be dreaming instead of just leaving
If you don't have the heart to fill her in
Then just step aside and let me lay it on the line
Cuz your mine
And tonight you dont revolve around here
Your mine
And this time I'm gonna scream a little louder
[Chorus:]
Dont wanna be like
Every other girl in the world
Like every other one who wants you
Cuz when I see you something inside me burns
And then I realise I wanna come first
I wanna come first
I made a promise not to blog about music videos anymore but Middlebrow has convinced me to finish up the abandoned book project "Out of Focus," so I must relearn how to write of these trivial things. Word of this Lindsay Lohan video debacle is already spreading fast. People I don't even know are coming up to ask me about it.
First of all, I must report that video is a tie-in for the upcoming Herbie retread "Herbie: Fully Loaded." LL is an interesting choice for Disney because she has been self-destructing in the tabloids for a good year now. Surely they must worry about LL's rumored substance abuse problem and Brandoesque antics on set? And how about these lyrics? "I wanna come first"? "This time I'm gonna scream a little louder"? I'm sure all her preteen fans think this bad-girl behavior is really subversive and cool but what about the Christian mothers who expect a certain standard of age-appropriate role modelry from their Disney product? Who is this LL succubus they are parading in front of them?
LL was on particularly bad behavior, whining and complaining and giving the extremely cool, extremely seasoned (and English) director a tough time from the outset. They've done a couple of videos together before and he's handled her but she was even worse than normal, rolling her eyes at his direction and even calling him out in front of the whole crew, claiming she wasn't getting any direction at all. You can't have it both ways, girl.
So the director finally snapped back at her, because he will kiss her bum to a point but after that he's the director and he's there to shoot this poxy pop promo, goddamnit. Well, LL didn't like that and stormed off. We had lunch and she never came out of her trailer after. The next night she came on set five hours into the day, did one shot and then left, saying "Sorry guys!" as earnestly as she could. She looked a little glazed, indeed, and we had a nice long inactive day to theorize on her personal life.
So we have to go back next Wednesday for one last day of shooting. But what if she doesn't come? What if she acts up? What then? Do they just call it off? My guess is that she's costing them somewhere in between $100,000 and $150,000 a day. How much will they take?
Indeed, this seems to be the underlying MO of the Pack, that group of ten or so handlers that follow LL around (including her manager, security, and hangers on). I blame them more than I actually blame LL. She is only eighteen, of course, and dimwitted and impetuous and heedless...but still only eighteen. These people seem to understand well that LL has a limited lifespan, that she will not make the transition out of the adolescent film and music markets into something more adult and long lasting. She has two, maybe three years ahead of her and they are trying to milk every single nickel out of her until she (and her career) collapses.
This is a picture of Renata, the very likeable Brazilian PA who was forced not only to stand-in for LL, but to sing and gyrate as well so that the creative teams could work out the camera and choreography cues. I can't think of anything too much more humiliating than that. My favorite bit was when she had to kind of crawl over Herbie's hood (hints of Whitesnake?) while singing to the camera. Her halfhearted attempts to mimic LL's teen sexuality were so awkward that in the end she actually was pretty durn sexy.
This is a picture of my assistant, R, who was paid $150 to be one of the background drivers in the scene. I skimmed off 33% of that, in true Mafioso fashion. Is it a coincidence that he looks like Bruce Lee in "Game of Death"?
This is a picture of a bewildered Sleepy E, who just cannot believe what he sees.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Middle-oke and the K-Town Paparazzo
Alas, Middlebrow has returned home and life goes back to normal. It was fun while it lasted. Last night we went on a Shaqued-up version of the Koreatown Walking Tour, starting at the Soot Bull Jeep for pulgogi, then stumbling to the Yi Ga Ju for some karaoke box, and to a random roach coach on Vermont for some carne asada tacos.
Here is a picture of us behaving like cheerful feral dogs.
In an attempt to document the historic event of Middle-oke, I pulled out my little consumer mini-DV camera and trained it on Middlebrow. I was hoping for some insightful commentary to cut into the Middle-oke music video (slated for a Sunday release), but he wasn't having it. M did not like being a bug under the glass. He had an acute Sean-Pennesque reaction to the whole thing, shoving his hand into the lens and cursing under his breath--threatening lawsuits, physical violence, that sort of thing. I told him he had a responsibilty to his readership and to buck up. He was not so amused. This will make for some great B-roll bits (lashing out in slow motion, angrily chewing tacos, etc.).
I was a trifle worried at first, but Middlebrow took to karaoke immediately, cranking through the Beatles' "Eleanor Rigby," Tears for Fears' "Shout," Leonard Cohen's "I'm Your Man," and, of course, "The End" by the Doors. Highlights included an ear-shattering version of Nirvana's "Rape Me" and a masculine, muscular version of Abba's "Dancing Queen."
Here Middlebrow contemplates the subtext of "Dancing Queen" and his role in singing about it.
Tomorrow I start work on another Lindsay Lohan video, which of course will be inferior to the Middle-oke Music Video. Embarassingly inferior. Ridiculously so. We are geniuses and they are not.
How they must hate us.
Here is a picture of us behaving like cheerful feral dogs.
In an attempt to document the historic event of Middle-oke, I pulled out my little consumer mini-DV camera and trained it on Middlebrow. I was hoping for some insightful commentary to cut into the Middle-oke music video (slated for a Sunday release), but he wasn't having it. M did not like being a bug under the glass. He had an acute Sean-Pennesque reaction to the whole thing, shoving his hand into the lens and cursing under his breath--threatening lawsuits, physical violence, that sort of thing. I told him he had a responsibilty to his readership and to buck up. He was not so amused. This will make for some great B-roll bits (lashing out in slow motion, angrily chewing tacos, etc.).
I was a trifle worried at first, but Middlebrow took to karaoke immediately, cranking through the Beatles' "Eleanor Rigby," Tears for Fears' "Shout," Leonard Cohen's "I'm Your Man," and, of course, "The End" by the Doors. Highlights included an ear-shattering version of Nirvana's "Rape Me" and a masculine, muscular version of Abba's "Dancing Queen."
Here Middlebrow contemplates the subtext of "Dancing Queen" and his role in singing about it.
Tomorrow I start work on another Lindsay Lohan video, which of course will be inferior to the Middle-oke Music Video. Embarassingly inferior. Ridiculously so. We are geniuses and they are not.
How they must hate us.
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