This is a picture of the combo DVD/VHS player in the room:
This is a picture of the CD/alarm clock:
This is a picture of Ethernet and phone cables (no wifi):
Given this data can you pinpoint when this hotel came into existence?
Wednesday, July 12, 2006
Detroit Rock City
Didn't stay in D.Troit proper but somewhere northeast. Stayed in when I should have gone out: shenanigans at a Canadian strip club, director gets her bod licked onstage by Russian stripper, E sleeps back in the hotel.
This is a picture of the combo DVD/VHS player in the room:
This is a picture of the CD/alarm clock:
This is a picture of Ethernet and phone cables (no wifi):
Given this data can you pinpoint when this hotel came into existence?
This is a picture of the combo DVD/VHS player in the room:
This is a picture of the CD/alarm clock:
This is a picture of Ethernet and phone cables (no wifi):
Given this data can you pinpoint when this hotel came into existence?
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
The Whine Bar -or- Shut Yo Mouth
What is it about the non-complainer? What is it about this person? The stoic smile, the gentle reassurances, the fortitude, the boundless optimism. How in the do they keep their negativity in check? Or is it that they are able to shut it off at the source? How is this done? But how do they not rail constantly against the annoying injustices of existence? How I ask you? I try desperately to be like them, to keep my mouth shut, to detach, to cowboy up and be a real man who endures in silence, who never shows weakness. But still I cannot stop myself.
I complain pretty much constantly. I don't know when this started but that's where I'm at and that's where I've been at for a long time. There are two possible explanations for this: 1) The amount of complaining is not directly related to the amount of catharthis-requiring suffering, and so fills up time and space regardless of mood, and 2) That my life is unbelievably and consistently crappy.
When I first started doing camerawork there was always some older, bitter crewmember on set who grumbled about the rates, the food, the work, everything. "Why did he take the job, then?" I'd ask. "Put the guy out of his misery." How unpleasant to be around someone like this, a negativity oozer, a sour sack of bile. Yuck.
I have become this guy. Which is terrible, really, and selfish. I basically disallow too much complaining in my department but I'm free to whine as much as I want because it makes me feel better. It's what we do when faced with our own powerlessness. We complain. The complaining will not solve the problem, nor address the forces that created the problem to begin with, nor alter any decision or result in the future. It helps us to cope with our impotence and that is all. Can you believe that? How horrible.
They say committing adultery in your mind is just as sinful as the completing act itself. I wonder if the same thing goes with complaining...if I still experience a burning need to complain but do not--does this signify anything? Is this an improvement? Or is this just eliminating the symptoms of a much larger problem (alas, fixing the sweaty palms does not make a fever go away).
I wish I could be one of these people, one of these patient people who could stifle the need to rant about poor customer service and unappreciative employers and idiot policy. What would that be like? Or, even better, what would it be like to feel no ill will at all?
Perhaps it's God I need to find. Many of the poorest countries on earth (Haiti, etc.) are happier than wealthier countries b/c they have religion. Ah, to complain less, surely it is more difficult than giving up coffee. A noble goal but hardly realistic, I know this. God, this is horrible. I hate this. How I hate complaining all the time. Stop it. Shit.
I complain pretty much constantly. I don't know when this started but that's where I'm at and that's where I've been at for a long time. There are two possible explanations for this: 1) The amount of complaining is not directly related to the amount of catharthis-requiring suffering, and so fills up time and space regardless of mood, and 2) That my life is unbelievably and consistently crappy.
When I first started doing camerawork there was always some older, bitter crewmember on set who grumbled about the rates, the food, the work, everything. "Why did he take the job, then?" I'd ask. "Put the guy out of his misery." How unpleasant to be around someone like this, a negativity oozer, a sour sack of bile. Yuck.
I have become this guy. Which is terrible, really, and selfish. I basically disallow too much complaining in my department but I'm free to whine as much as I want because it makes me feel better. It's what we do when faced with our own powerlessness. We complain. The complaining will not solve the problem, nor address the forces that created the problem to begin with, nor alter any decision or result in the future. It helps us to cope with our impotence and that is all. Can you believe that? How horrible.
They say committing adultery in your mind is just as sinful as the completing act itself. I wonder if the same thing goes with complaining...if I still experience a burning need to complain but do not--does this signify anything? Is this an improvement? Or is this just eliminating the symptoms of a much larger problem (alas, fixing the sweaty palms does not make a fever go away).
I wish I could be one of these people, one of these patient people who could stifle the need to rant about poor customer service and unappreciative employers and idiot policy. What would that be like? Or, even better, what would it be like to feel no ill will at all?
Perhaps it's God I need to find. Many of the poorest countries on earth (Haiti, etc.) are happier than wealthier countries b/c they have religion. Ah, to complain less, surely it is more difficult than giving up coffee. A noble goal but hardly realistic, I know this. God, this is horrible. I hate this. How I hate complaining all the time. Stop it. Shit.
Saturday, July 08, 2006
On Tour
Portland is the first stop on a two-week, eight-city, post-Katrina State Farm commercial. This sounds fun but is actually kind of stressful b/c we are understaffed and there is a motherlode of unreliable equipment to marshal and I am the only one to blame really when things start to go bad.
I haven't been to Portland in many many years but it is beautiful and small and leafy and filled with bicyclists and young almost-indigent alt kids that bring back "My Own Private Idaho."
I love Portland.
This is a picture of Powell's.
This is a picture of Evelyn Waugh marketed as Chick Lit (!).
This is a picture of the Willamette (sp?).
This is a picture of the teddy bear that came with my swanky eco-friendly hotel.
This is a picture of my purchases (I have no business buying so many books and lugging them around without reading them).
I haven't been to Portland in many many years but it is beautiful and small and leafy and filled with bicyclists and young almost-indigent alt kids that bring back "My Own Private Idaho."
I love Portland.
This is a picture of Powell's.
This is a picture of Evelyn Waugh marketed as Chick Lit (!).
This is a picture of the Willamette (sp?).
This is a picture of the teddy bear that came with my swanky eco-friendly hotel.
This is a picture of my purchases (I have no business buying so many books and lugging them around without reading them).
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Narratives of Wonderful Awfulness (Profane Album Version)
So, it turns out the g-friend's very good friend's boyfriend is a guy I know from a long time ago...someone I haven't seen in probably six years. He lost forty pounds of fat and gained fifteen of muscle in the interim, while I've bloated back up to over the 100 kilo mark (the shame!).
He said he thought he had saw me once about a year ago, walking across a parking structure in Koreatown to the Hollywood Video on Western. I said yeah, that was probably me, and then I told him the story of my near-fistfight in that particular store:
Here is the amazing narrative in case you forgot
J in turn recounted his own narrative from the exact same Hollywood Video on Western: a large raving black man in front of him was insulting the Chinese couple at the front of the line. "Fucken Chink blah blah go back home you fucken slanty-eyed blah blah." Then he honed in on the woman: "Your fucken Chink wife is an ugly ass whore blah blah." Apparently this went on for quite some time until the line clicked forward and the Chinese couple was able to leave.
The Chinese man elected not to engage, obviously, and they went home without incident (other than humiliation, of course). But for my friend, this event changed his life. "I don't want to be that guy who just stands there and takes it while some asshole berates his girlfriend. I'd want to kick his ass or at least hurt him in the process." J's girlfriend is Chinese American....so from that day on he started working out and now he's in incredible shape.
You might disagree with his reasoning, as to whether violence in that situation is appropriate or not...I actually think it is...the older I get the more I think physical violence is acceptable in certain circumstances. Call me a savage. But hey, sometimes you have to engage, like it or not, and when that happens you better be ready. (I encourage people to post their age-of-majority-and-older fighting tales here...)
But he's in great shape now thanks to this altercation.
If find that many good things in my life have come as a result of tremendous awfulness. I never would have lived in Asia and traveled had my life in Washington State not been a total piece of shit. I never would have become such a Productive Machine had I not wasted my years in college and not "felt behind." I never would have developed such dogged discipline if I had been actually able to succeed without really trying in high school and college.
"You should find that raving black guy," I said, "and thank him for changing your life."
"Yeah, I should, shouldn't I?"
Moral: Don't go to Hollywood Video.
He said he thought he had saw me once about a year ago, walking across a parking structure in Koreatown to the Hollywood Video on Western. I said yeah, that was probably me, and then I told him the story of my near-fistfight in that particular store:
Here is the amazing narrative in case you forgot
J in turn recounted his own narrative from the exact same Hollywood Video on Western: a large raving black man in front of him was insulting the Chinese couple at the front of the line. "Fucken Chink blah blah go back home you fucken slanty-eyed blah blah." Then he honed in on the woman: "Your fucken Chink wife is an ugly ass whore blah blah." Apparently this went on for quite some time until the line clicked forward and the Chinese couple was able to leave.
The Chinese man elected not to engage, obviously, and they went home without incident (other than humiliation, of course). But for my friend, this event changed his life. "I don't want to be that guy who just stands there and takes it while some asshole berates his girlfriend. I'd want to kick his ass or at least hurt him in the process." J's girlfriend is Chinese American....so from that day on he started working out and now he's in incredible shape.
You might disagree with his reasoning, as to whether violence in that situation is appropriate or not...I actually think it is...the older I get the more I think physical violence is acceptable in certain circumstances. Call me a savage. But hey, sometimes you have to engage, like it or not, and when that happens you better be ready. (I encourage people to post their age-of-majority-and-older fighting tales here...)
But he's in great shape now thanks to this altercation.
If find that many good things in my life have come as a result of tremendous awfulness. I never would have lived in Asia and traveled had my life in Washington State not been a total piece of shit. I never would have become such a Productive Machine had I not wasted my years in college and not "felt behind." I never would have developed such dogged discipline if I had been actually able to succeed without really trying in high school and college.
"You should find that raving black guy," I said, "and thank him for changing your life."
"Yeah, I should, shouldn't I?"
Moral: Don't go to Hollywood Video.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Fife Milton Junior Soccer Club
First of all, the Americans got crushed again today and went home with their tails between their legs. People can blame the loss on questionable officiating, but Ghana simply outplayed them, just like every other team in this World Cup. The Americans were pathetic, really, and scored only one goal in three games (the goal against Italy was put in by one of the Italians). I don't even know why I care; nobody else does. Besides, it's cooler that Ghana advanced (the only African team to do so); they are clearly excited to be there and are calling half-day holidays so they definitely deserve it.
So, the question is: at what point does soccer become uncool? I played youth soccer up into high school and it always seemed fairly popular. There were four teams in our area for our relative age groups: Jaws (Raq's team--these days it would be spelled "Jawz" no doubt), Sounders II (a "sequel" to the Seattle NASL franchise), Sounders III (a sequel of a sequel, my team), and the lowly Falcons. All kids realize that kicking a ball up and down a field and running around is tremendous fun. And there was--and is--a great turnout for youth soccer, before kids realize that it's uncool, I guess.
But I'm not sure when and where this happens. Once you enter high school being a soccer player is about as cool as tennis...or cross country...or any of the other non-gladiator sports. There's football, and then, to a lesser extent, there is basketball, and then there is everything else. At least that's the way it was in our school.
Club soccer was in the fall but JV soccer was in the spring, so when I was a freshman I decided to forgo baseball for the soccer team. Even though I had played as a defenseman for the previous five years or so, the coach put me up as a striker in our defensive 4-4-2 formation. I was totally ineffectual. Where my height was an advantage on defense it made it more difficult to handle the ball in tight quarters or in attacking mode. I wasn't fast enough to outrun defenses and we were so bad that our midfield just hung back and packed it in on D, so there was never an attacking midfield...it was just me and the other striker waiting for a long ball that we'd eventually bungle and lose.
But for some weird reason I never told the coach that I had played 8 years of club soccer, first in the midfield, then in the defensive third. I was outspoken and a little bit of an asshole; so it seems really bizarre that I wouldn't have relayed this crucial bit of information to the coach. I didn't score a single goal the whole season and I started to hate soccer.
It's interesting how these little events can dramatically alter the course of one's sporting life. Get cut as a 7th grader and you might not ever play again. You're off-track and the team becomes a little gang and it's harder than ever for you to get back on track...even though it's only 8th grade. They know the offenses, you don't...etc..they know each other...So the JV coach probably just thought I sucked, and that was that. As a sophomore the better players moved up and played varsity. I stunk it up on JV for another season and then I quit. Soccer was suddenly unfun.
And that was that.
Moral: Speak up or have your talents squandered on JV for two years.
Now I'm getting itchy to kick the ball around again. I have a friend who plays in a rec league and I'm thinking about going out and recapturing my youth, experiencing those glory days anew, and pullin hammies in the process.
So, the question is: at what point does soccer become uncool? I played youth soccer up into high school and it always seemed fairly popular. There were four teams in our area for our relative age groups: Jaws (Raq's team--these days it would be spelled "Jawz" no doubt), Sounders II (a "sequel" to the Seattle NASL franchise), Sounders III (a sequel of a sequel, my team), and the lowly Falcons. All kids realize that kicking a ball up and down a field and running around is tremendous fun. And there was--and is--a great turnout for youth soccer, before kids realize that it's uncool, I guess.
But I'm not sure when and where this happens. Once you enter high school being a soccer player is about as cool as tennis...or cross country...or any of the other non-gladiator sports. There's football, and then, to a lesser extent, there is basketball, and then there is everything else. At least that's the way it was in our school.
Club soccer was in the fall but JV soccer was in the spring, so when I was a freshman I decided to forgo baseball for the soccer team. Even though I had played as a defenseman for the previous five years or so, the coach put me up as a striker in our defensive 4-4-2 formation. I was totally ineffectual. Where my height was an advantage on defense it made it more difficult to handle the ball in tight quarters or in attacking mode. I wasn't fast enough to outrun defenses and we were so bad that our midfield just hung back and packed it in on D, so there was never an attacking midfield...it was just me and the other striker waiting for a long ball that we'd eventually bungle and lose.
But for some weird reason I never told the coach that I had played 8 years of club soccer, first in the midfield, then in the defensive third. I was outspoken and a little bit of an asshole; so it seems really bizarre that I wouldn't have relayed this crucial bit of information to the coach. I didn't score a single goal the whole season and I started to hate soccer.
It's interesting how these little events can dramatically alter the course of one's sporting life. Get cut as a 7th grader and you might not ever play again. You're off-track and the team becomes a little gang and it's harder than ever for you to get back on track...even though it's only 8th grade. They know the offenses, you don't...etc..they know each other...So the JV coach probably just thought I sucked, and that was that. As a sophomore the better players moved up and played varsity. I stunk it up on JV for another season and then I quit. Soccer was suddenly unfun.
And that was that.
Moral: Speak up or have your talents squandered on JV for two years.
Now I'm getting itchy to kick the ball around again. I have a friend who plays in a rec league and I'm thinking about going out and recapturing my youth, experiencing those glory days anew, and pullin hammies in the process.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Will Middlebrow Ever Blog Again?
A. I'd like to think so
B. Not if he can help it
C. Them're purdy long odds, I reckon, given the evidence
D. If he responds to guilt, which he has in the past
E. Yes, but only fortmonthly
F. What's blogging?
G. All of the above
H. None of the above
I. Some of the above
B. Not if he can help it
C. Them're purdy long odds, I reckon, given the evidence
D. If he responds to guilt, which he has in the past
E. Yes, but only fortmonthly
F. What's blogging?
G. All of the above
H. None of the above
I. Some of the above
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
World Cup and the Decline of Productivity
The 2006 FIFA World Cup is upon us and I am getting nothing done. These are Idle Times for the film business in LA (but not in NY for some reason), and I was hoping to use these weeks to catch up on life in general, but I shelled out for cable TV for the first time in my entire life and now I'm up at 6AM every day to watch the games. This is better than the 11:30 pm/4:30 am slots from the 2002 World Cup in Korea and Japan...but it's still wreaking havoc on the system. I am in a bizarre 2-Naps-per-day mode to accomodate the early start times...
The Americans look terrible, the Japanese look terrible, the English look terrible, even the Brazilians look mediocre. So far only Argentina looks good. Four out of the five African countries lost already (Ivory Coast, Angola, Togo, and Ghana). Tunisia plays tomorrow against Saudi Arabia, I think. So I'm putting all of my hopes in with the Mexicans...and my plan is to go back into my neighborhood and watch the game in a local bar surrounded by passionate Latinos who actually care about the sport.
Here's a story in The Economist about why the World Cup is far superior to the Olympics.
The Americans look terrible, the Japanese look terrible, the English look terrible, even the Brazilians look mediocre. So far only Argentina looks good. Four out of the five African countries lost already (Ivory Coast, Angola, Togo, and Ghana). Tunisia plays tomorrow against Saudi Arabia, I think. So I'm putting all of my hopes in with the Mexicans...and my plan is to go back into my neighborhood and watch the game in a local bar surrounded by passionate Latinos who actually care about the sport.
Here's a story in The Economist about why the World Cup is far superior to the Olympics.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Reading Aloud Before Humans
On the 25th I'm going to be reading some short fiction (my own) in front of a paying audience of strangers. Urp. This is my first time to do this. It's part of a larger monthly "semi-literary salon" that will feature of 20-minute clip of my movie and live music from The Santiago Steps (the guys who did many songs in the film).
Even though the fiction read was my idea I am terrified of this and thought I might entreat the SLC contingent for a lil advice.
BTW, I will go SHORT AND FUNNY with my selection.
Thanks for listening...
Even though the fiction read was my idea I am terrified of this and thought I might entreat the SLC contingent for a lil advice.
BTW, I will go SHORT AND FUNNY with my selection.
Thanks for listening...
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Egoyan's Exotica & the Ephemerality of Taste -or- In a World of Temptation, Obsession is the Deadliest Desire
"Forbidden desires and dangerous intrigue generate sizzling heat in this erotic thriller! At a sexy strip club called Exotica, three strangers -- an obsessive man, an erotic table dancer, and the club's mysterious D.J. -- share much more than is apparent at first glance! As their secret passions grow, they become more deeply entangled in an inescapable web of jealousy, deceit, and revenge! The powerfully seductive hit EXOTICA is gripping entertainment -- you won't be able to take your eyes off it!"
For the last ten years I've enjoyed pointing out this movie and saying, "No, it's good. Really. No, really. It's magnificent, in fact. It's in my top three of all time. Yes, I'm being serious. Trust me. No, really. No, I'm not on drugs."
It was December of 1994 and I had just moved to Seattle and was unemployed and living in the U-District and going to the movies about once a day. I probably would never have seen this film had I not exhausted most of the other choices. I knew nothing about the film - I hadn't even seen a poster - I just noticed that it was playing at the Metro and decided to go. So I went and was totally blown away by it. It was one of those truly transformative filmgoing experiences, which, at the time, I thought were no longer possible (already well on my way to becoming permanently cynical). It was an art film, definitely, but it was far more accessible than his pretentious and impenetrable earlier work (Speaking Parts, Family Viewing, The Adjuster). Later Egoyan would make "The Sweet Hereafter" and then disappear back into obscurity, but after spending 90 minutes with Exotica Egoyan was suddenly my favorite director.
Perhaps it was his cool, detatched Canadian sensibilites, or his tightly wound plotting, or his hyperreal dialogue. I don't know. I was 24 and fully in control of my faculties, so I have no excuse.
The revelation? Exotica is, in fact, quite terrible.
I just sat down and watched it for the first time in about five years. I had to fight myself not to shut it off. It's that bad. Actually, there are still some good things going on here, but the bad things are beyond atrocious. I watched the whole thing with my mouth hanging open. How could I have been so wrong? Am I smarter or stupider or just different? Just what is going on? Are there other examples of this in my life..where I have felt so strongly about a thing only to reverse field a couple of years later? I could see people doing this on political issues, but on a film? Well, obviously the film has stayed the same so I've gone through some pretty severe changes without realizing it.
Exotica in the 90s v. Now
90s: Arty
Now: Pretentious
90s: Complex Interwoven Plot
Now: Contrived and Unbelievable Connexions Between Characters
90s: Flat and Hyperreal Mamet/Hartley Dialogue Delivery
Now: Bad and Uninvolving Performance
90s: Creative Framing
Now: Bad Cinematography
90s: Cool Flashbacks and Flashforwards!
Now: Clunk, Clunk, Clunk...
90s: Interesting, Writerly Speeches
Now: Do People Talk LIke This In Canada?
90s: Intellectual
Now: Oh, please...
90s: The Director is the Author of the Film
Now: The Director Should Stay the Fuck out of the Way B/C He's All Over Every Frame of This Thing and That's All I Can Think About While Watching It.
For the last ten years I've enjoyed pointing out this movie and saying, "No, it's good. Really. No, really. It's magnificent, in fact. It's in my top three of all time. Yes, I'm being serious. Trust me. No, really. No, I'm not on drugs."
It was December of 1994 and I had just moved to Seattle and was unemployed and living in the U-District and going to the movies about once a day. I probably would never have seen this film had I not exhausted most of the other choices. I knew nothing about the film - I hadn't even seen a poster - I just noticed that it was playing at the Metro and decided to go. So I went and was totally blown away by it. It was one of those truly transformative filmgoing experiences, which, at the time, I thought were no longer possible (already well on my way to becoming permanently cynical). It was an art film, definitely, but it was far more accessible than his pretentious and impenetrable earlier work (Speaking Parts, Family Viewing, The Adjuster). Later Egoyan would make "The Sweet Hereafter" and then disappear back into obscurity, but after spending 90 minutes with Exotica Egoyan was suddenly my favorite director.
Perhaps it was his cool, detatched Canadian sensibilites, or his tightly wound plotting, or his hyperreal dialogue. I don't know. I was 24 and fully in control of my faculties, so I have no excuse.
The revelation? Exotica is, in fact, quite terrible.
I just sat down and watched it for the first time in about five years. I had to fight myself not to shut it off. It's that bad. Actually, there are still some good things going on here, but the bad things are beyond atrocious. I watched the whole thing with my mouth hanging open. How could I have been so wrong? Am I smarter or stupider or just different? Just what is going on? Are there other examples of this in my life..where I have felt so strongly about a thing only to reverse field a couple of years later? I could see people doing this on political issues, but on a film? Well, obviously the film has stayed the same so I've gone through some pretty severe changes without realizing it.
Exotica in the 90s v. Now
90s: Arty
Now: Pretentious
90s: Complex Interwoven Plot
Now: Contrived and Unbelievable Connexions Between Characters
90s: Flat and Hyperreal Mamet/Hartley Dialogue Delivery
Now: Bad and Uninvolving Performance
90s: Creative Framing
Now: Bad Cinematography
90s: Cool Flashbacks and Flashforwards!
Now: Clunk, Clunk, Clunk...
90s: Interesting, Writerly Speeches
Now: Do People Talk LIke This In Canada?
90s: Intellectual
Now: Oh, please...
90s: The Director is the Author of the Film
Now: The Director Should Stay the Fuck out of the Way B/C He's All Over Every Frame of This Thing and That's All I Can Think About While Watching It.
Thursday, June 08, 2006
Monkey Ownership
Yesterday we finished up a 2-day Outkast video. Outkast consists of two men from Atlanta, Big Boi and Andre 3000. Andre is clearly the more talented of the two, the hitmaker who penned "Hey Ya" and "Roses." These days they record everything separately (and tour separately too, I think) and their albums are double albums (one of Big Boi's songs and one of Andre 3000's). Unfortunately, our video was a Big Boi video and although it had some good things going for it it was lame in the end. Here is a picture of a TV person (a little person told to dance around with a TV over his head):
What I really want to talk about, though, is the actress with the monkey in the lunch line. The woman with the Paris Hilton nose and demeanor who held a collared pet monkey in her arms like a baby. "That totally offends me," I said to my assistant, "That thing is a wild animal and I hope it goes Monkey Shines on her." My assistant dragged me off to one side and told me that he had hooked up with this woman in Las Vegas and that she had taken a year off of work to domesticate the baby monkey, which is what they tell you to do when you're raising a monkey as a pet. Apparently, she was part of a reality show called "paradise Hotel", which had a lowbrow hook-up-or-get-kicked-off hook. "I don't care. That thing is a wild animal and I hope it fangs her ass."
This isn't the first time I've seen a young woman carrying around a monkey, Paris Hilton style. I thought toy dogs were bad enough, but now it seems like it's a fashionable race to own the exotic. Fur coats are gauche but jungle animals are okay, i guess. Grr.
What I really want to talk about, though, is the actress with the monkey in the lunch line. The woman with the Paris Hilton nose and demeanor who held a collared pet monkey in her arms like a baby. "That totally offends me," I said to my assistant, "That thing is a wild animal and I hope it goes Monkey Shines on her." My assistant dragged me off to one side and told me that he had hooked up with this woman in Las Vegas and that she had taken a year off of work to domesticate the baby monkey, which is what they tell you to do when you're raising a monkey as a pet. Apparently, she was part of a reality show called "paradise Hotel", which had a lowbrow hook-up-or-get-kicked-off hook. "I don't care. That thing is a wild animal and I hope it fangs her ass."
This isn't the first time I've seen a young woman carrying around a monkey, Paris Hilton style. I thought toy dogs were bad enough, but now it seems like it's a fashionable race to own the exotic. Fur coats are gauche but jungle animals are okay, i guess. Grr.
Sunday, June 04, 2006
The Chipsters
Last Saturday night I went into the Coffee Bean on Sunset and Fairfax and noticed a group of blue-suited Russian men smoking by a table where their friend was playing a young blonde woman in chess. The blonde wasn't wearing any makeup and her hair was pulled back kind of severely but she was pretty and she had that look, that SoCal look (or SoCal Russian look). Quite a few people were staring at them, because people have nothing to do but stare when they sit in the Coffee Bean, or because it is unusual to a young woman locked in pitched chess battle with some old Russian businessman dude. Two young guys in their twenties wandered over and watched from close range, too close. One was a white boy with shoulder length boy band hair and distressed fashion jeans with button-up shirt and a designer leather jacket. The other was an afroed light-skinned black man with a DJ aesthetic. They stood over the game and watched, smiling, as the young woman eventually lost. She shook the hand of the businessman and his Russian friends and took off.
Then the white boy sat down. A timer appeared and they played speed chess. Ah, I thought, so the Backstreet Boy considers himself a chess prodigy. He lost, eventually, but he played well and fought hard. Then the African American dude sat down. I think he beat thte businessman. Then I left.
Sunday they were there also. The young woman came up to their table wearing high heels and white hot pants, fully made up. Her hair was in one long rope, Lara Croft style. The short shorts were so short that pretty much everyone outside on the patio was staring, which is saying a lot for LA. "Ah ha," I thought, "You make your assumptions cuz this woman here will smoke alla yo asses in speed chess!" It was so weird to see her and her young friends dressed like this. It was like they were a family of genius aliens and they were dressing up like Sunset Strip-going humans in order to fit in. This was the intelligence they had received from reconnaissance. This is what humans wore at the coffee shop. This is normal.
So weird. But cool. I love these kids, who have chess battles with old russian dudes before they hit the club and get trashed...Which is it? They are good at chess. But then they are hipsters too.
The are Chipsters.
Then the white boy sat down. A timer appeared and they played speed chess. Ah, I thought, so the Backstreet Boy considers himself a chess prodigy. He lost, eventually, but he played well and fought hard. Then the African American dude sat down. I think he beat thte businessman. Then I left.
Sunday they were there also. The young woman came up to their table wearing high heels and white hot pants, fully made up. Her hair was in one long rope, Lara Croft style. The short shorts were so short that pretty much everyone outside on the patio was staring, which is saying a lot for LA. "Ah ha," I thought, "You make your assumptions cuz this woman here will smoke alla yo asses in speed chess!" It was so weird to see her and her young friends dressed like this. It was like they were a family of genius aliens and they were dressing up like Sunset Strip-going humans in order to fit in. This was the intelligence they had received from reconnaissance. This is what humans wore at the coffee shop. This is normal.
So weird. But cool. I love these kids, who have chess battles with old russian dudes before they hit the club and get trashed...Which is it? They are good at chess. But then they are hipsters too.
The are Chipsters.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Worldfest Debriefing
Talking to Dr. Write the other day made me realize that I never did post on this subject. And for that I apologize, although my rant-avoidance reasoning was honorable, I think. Who wants to listen to a Sleepy E rant when they can be doing mental prep for World Cup?
This is the deal: Worldfest is the vanity publisher of film festivals. Worldfest is a mid-level competitive festival that has more categories than should be allowed by law (I think Best Medical Commercial was one). And each category has five or six or seven awards in it (grand prize, jury prize, platinum, gold, silver, bronze, etc). So there are a ton of awards going out, so many that they really lose all meaning. So they invite the hundreds of award winners out to Houston, and they try to program premieres because they know everyone brings associates and friends and family to their premiere. Then they charge $100/head to go to the awards banquet and they pack in as many people as they can and get stingy with the wine. Add to that a submission fee that is basically double what most festivals charge and it starts to look like a little business.
Not that film festivals need to be non-profit in the economical sense (although it's interesting that 90% of foreign festivals are free to enter whereas 95% of domestic festivals charge a fee ($40-$100). But all of the Worldfest revenue stream seems to be internal, via the filmmakers themselves (and their posse). No Houston locals were even aware that there was a festival going on. There was no advertising or coverage in the print media or on television or radio even, it seemed. So there were no walk-in ticket sales, really. Just filmmakers and friends watching each others films. Weird.
And slightly disturbing. I was in a foul mood most of the festival when I learned what was going on. But only because certain expectations (cool art house theaters, newly discovered international cinema, alternative shorts, a spirit of indyness and congratulation) weren't met. Instead it's a transaction, which is: I pay them my money and they give me an award that I can put on my poster. There's even downloadable laurel leaves and trophies on their website, which makes total sense. They are a wholesaler of awards. A clearing house. If your film needs an award, go to Worldfest, because in this particular case Worldfest's obscurity works for it (nobody knows about Worldfest, but they also don't know that it's BS either!).
Did I forget to mention the cash bar at the $100/head dinner?
Now that I know what it is I'm fine with it. Nobody would ever premiere at Worldfest unless they hadn't got rejected everywhere else. That's why they don't program hits from other festivals! Because no one would bring their posse to Houston if they had a legitimate festival run going on!
Sorry if that sounds negative. The cool thing was that the premiere went really well and we had a big local turnout and a lot of old-time players got together and there was kind of a reunion of sorts among them. It was great to premiere in Houston for this reason. Mark the recluse came from Boulder and one player came from San Francisco and the folks from Gig Harbor and my friend and composer came from Seattle. So it was cool to hang with everyone in Houston, but, I'm sorry, the film festival is a joke.
The problem is that Way of the Puck isn't getting programmed anywhere. At all. It's kind of embarrassing, really. I continue to send out, but it continues to get rejected.
Here are some guesses why:
1. It's not an "issue movie." It's not "socially conscious", whatever that means.
2. I'm not down with the Festival Mafia and the Gatekeeping Cabal.
3. I consistently turn in my stuff right at the deadline instead of before.
4. It sucks.
5. The beginning doesn't grab people.
6. Air hockey is trivial.
7. It's impossible to overturn people's expectations about the triviality of air hockey in the first five minutes of the movie.
8. Sharpie on a DVD face.
9. Everyone is on drugs.
10. No movie stars.
At the end of the day Worldfest is actually cool because at least I was able to have a premiere at all! Actually, this works against me now too...b/c I want to make changes but I've already premiered and I have a shelf life and the date stamp on my box is fast approaching and soon I will wilt and smell bad and have to go in the disposal.
Ah well. New projects beckon. Onward!
This is the deal: Worldfest is the vanity publisher of film festivals. Worldfest is a mid-level competitive festival that has more categories than should be allowed by law (I think Best Medical Commercial was one). And each category has five or six or seven awards in it (grand prize, jury prize, platinum, gold, silver, bronze, etc). So there are a ton of awards going out, so many that they really lose all meaning. So they invite the hundreds of award winners out to Houston, and they try to program premieres because they know everyone brings associates and friends and family to their premiere. Then they charge $100/head to go to the awards banquet and they pack in as many people as they can and get stingy with the wine. Add to that a submission fee that is basically double what most festivals charge and it starts to look like a little business.
Not that film festivals need to be non-profit in the economical sense (although it's interesting that 90% of foreign festivals are free to enter whereas 95% of domestic festivals charge a fee ($40-$100). But all of the Worldfest revenue stream seems to be internal, via the filmmakers themselves (and their posse). No Houston locals were even aware that there was a festival going on. There was no advertising or coverage in the print media or on television or radio even, it seemed. So there were no walk-in ticket sales, really. Just filmmakers and friends watching each others films. Weird.
And slightly disturbing. I was in a foul mood most of the festival when I learned what was going on. But only because certain expectations (cool art house theaters, newly discovered international cinema, alternative shorts, a spirit of indyness and congratulation) weren't met. Instead it's a transaction, which is: I pay them my money and they give me an award that I can put on my poster. There's even downloadable laurel leaves and trophies on their website, which makes total sense. They are a wholesaler of awards. A clearing house. If your film needs an award, go to Worldfest, because in this particular case Worldfest's obscurity works for it (nobody knows about Worldfest, but they also don't know that it's BS either!).
Did I forget to mention the cash bar at the $100/head dinner?
Now that I know what it is I'm fine with it. Nobody would ever premiere at Worldfest unless they hadn't got rejected everywhere else. That's why they don't program hits from other festivals! Because no one would bring their posse to Houston if they had a legitimate festival run going on!
Sorry if that sounds negative. The cool thing was that the premiere went really well and we had a big local turnout and a lot of old-time players got together and there was kind of a reunion of sorts among them. It was great to premiere in Houston for this reason. Mark the recluse came from Boulder and one player came from San Francisco and the folks from Gig Harbor and my friend and composer came from Seattle. So it was cool to hang with everyone in Houston, but, I'm sorry, the film festival is a joke.
The problem is that Way of the Puck isn't getting programmed anywhere. At all. It's kind of embarrassing, really. I continue to send out, but it continues to get rejected.
Here are some guesses why:
1. It's not an "issue movie." It's not "socially conscious", whatever that means.
2. I'm not down with the Festival Mafia and the Gatekeeping Cabal.
3. I consistently turn in my stuff right at the deadline instead of before.
4. It sucks.
5. The beginning doesn't grab people.
6. Air hockey is trivial.
7. It's impossible to overturn people's expectations about the triviality of air hockey in the first five minutes of the movie.
8. Sharpie on a DVD face.
9. Everyone is on drugs.
10. No movie stars.
At the end of the day Worldfest is actually cool because at least I was able to have a premiere at all! Actually, this works against me now too...b/c I want to make changes but I've already premiered and I have a shelf life and the date stamp on my box is fast approaching and soon I will wilt and smell bad and have to go in the disposal.
Ah well. New projects beckon. Onward!
Monday, May 22, 2006
Weird Sleep & the Efficiency Expert
One day last week l woke up at 6am, then studied till about 11am, then slept from 11am to 4pm, then studied from 4pm to 12am, then slept from 12am to 5am, then studied from 5am to 8:30am, then slept from 8:30am to 10am, then stayed awake till about 4pm, then slept from 4pm to 7pm, then studied from 7pm till 1am, before getting back on a more normal sleep schedule. This was an extreme example, but I do tend to have wacky sleep habits, sometimes voluntarily, sometimes not.
The wackiest of all sleep habits usually occurs when I am simultaneously in Writing Mode and Intense Work Mode. Since my best creative hours occur in the morning, I try to skew my day so that I am waking up and putting in a few hours of writing work before the work-work commences. Since I often have to leave at 6am, this means rising in the middle of the night to tap away on the computer. Things get really insane...usually with me coming home after a 12-hour day and trying to fall asleep immediately at around 8pm, then setting my alarm for 1am and waking up and walking around the block, trying to write from 1:30am to 5:30am. Results vary from day to day, and I can't keep this up for more than a couple of weeks.
But this has lead to the latest discovery: Full Bore does not always equal Most Efficient. In the past, productivity was directly hardwired to coffee consumption. But I'm starting to learn that there are different kinds of productivity and different states of mind and different ways to reach them. Less Sleep does not mean More Productive, no way...Sometimes it does, sure...I find that five or six hours at night, followed by an afternoon nap, then a once-a-week Sleep-In Day seem to maximize the hours. Less sleep than that and I get dumb. More sleep than that and I'm using up valuable work time.
So I'm thinking about doing a self-study for the next three months, making daily notes about diet, exercise, sleep, mood, and how they tie into productivity. Hopefully, certain trends will reveal themselves and I can get a better idea how to listen to my mind and body to maximize results. Then again, I may just find that some days I'm inspired and some days I'm not and it has nothing to do with anything...
Hmmm.
The wackiest of all sleep habits usually occurs when I am simultaneously in Writing Mode and Intense Work Mode. Since my best creative hours occur in the morning, I try to skew my day so that I am waking up and putting in a few hours of writing work before the work-work commences. Since I often have to leave at 6am, this means rising in the middle of the night to tap away on the computer. Things get really insane...usually with me coming home after a 12-hour day and trying to fall asleep immediately at around 8pm, then setting my alarm for 1am and waking up and walking around the block, trying to write from 1:30am to 5:30am. Results vary from day to day, and I can't keep this up for more than a couple of weeks.
But this has lead to the latest discovery: Full Bore does not always equal Most Efficient. In the past, productivity was directly hardwired to coffee consumption. But I'm starting to learn that there are different kinds of productivity and different states of mind and different ways to reach them. Less Sleep does not mean More Productive, no way...Sometimes it does, sure...I find that five or six hours at night, followed by an afternoon nap, then a once-a-week Sleep-In Day seem to maximize the hours. Less sleep than that and I get dumb. More sleep than that and I'm using up valuable work time.
So I'm thinking about doing a self-study for the next three months, making daily notes about diet, exercise, sleep, mood, and how they tie into productivity. Hopefully, certain trends will reveal themselves and I can get a better idea how to listen to my mind and body to maximize results. Then again, I may just find that some days I'm inspired and some days I'm not and it has nothing to do with anything...
Hmmm.
Friday, May 19, 2006
No Phone
Yesterday midnight Z and I started our 2-week No Phone/No Email Lifestyle Test. This morning we went to Paper Source in Beverly Hills and I dropped $80 on stationery. It's true, I have a paper fetish and I like to shop for office supplies when depressed, but Paper Source takes this vice to a whole new level. I love the idea of paying $1 for one sheet of paper. Hilarious. Now if only the quality of my words can live up to this level of decadence.
The saleswoman at the Paper Source totally fawned over our plan when I revealed what we were doing. She asked how long we'd been going out and confirmed that this was a great way to "jump-start any romance" (feel free to interpret that however you please). Then she congratulated Z on the brilliant idea (yes, another gender-based assumption), a credit which is still disputed among us (along with the absurd idea that E is actually romantic somehow).
So, still on Day 1, the Importance of Planning has already become paramount. Last-minute cancellations and flaking aren't really possible...and spontaneity becomes a lot harder too. Not only do you have to make the plan; you have to stick to the plan. And if you can't stick to the plan, then you need to drive over there and explain yourself (or send a courier for $15). So the dates will have more buildup and more importance, something to look forward to (because there is more at stake if it falls thru). This is the idea, anyway. We shall see how it goes.
In the meantime, I'll try to craft a worthwhile letter every day for fourteen days (or until my limited supply of stationery runs out).
The saleswoman at the Paper Source totally fawned over our plan when I revealed what we were doing. She asked how long we'd been going out and confirmed that this was a great way to "jump-start any romance" (feel free to interpret that however you please). Then she congratulated Z on the brilliant idea (yes, another gender-based assumption), a credit which is still disputed among us (along with the absurd idea that E is actually romantic somehow).
So, still on Day 1, the Importance of Planning has already become paramount. Last-minute cancellations and flaking aren't really possible...and spontaneity becomes a lot harder too. Not only do you have to make the plan; you have to stick to the plan. And if you can't stick to the plan, then you need to drive over there and explain yourself (or send a courier for $15). So the dates will have more buildup and more importance, something to look forward to (because there is more at stake if it falls thru). This is the idea, anyway. We shall see how it goes.
In the meantime, I'll try to craft a worthwhile letter every day for fourteen days (or until my limited supply of stationery runs out).
Monday, May 15, 2006
The Sisyphean Mound
First of all, welcome back all. I haven't been writing much lately--finishing the movie was the main culprit, then the gf, then, well...then just life, I guess.
This was the main shocker: that the finishing of the movie wouldn't provide an abundance of free time. That existence was just going to be filled with other things. I have a list of 30 or so tasks that need to be accomplished before I can catch up in life. And these are neither long-range nor abstract goals, either, but concrete things that need to be done in the next couple of days...and which, of course, will just replaced by other things. This list does not seem to diminish. Ever.
And I am unmarried! Childless! Renting! Healthy!
I know I am not unique in this regard, but when did this list turn from three or four things into thirty? Even just two years ago I feel that I might have had one or two things to do on a day off and the rest of the afternoon and evening could be filled with whatever. Now there's just this interminable list and the backlog of responsibilities. Ah, the years of college, when weeks could go by without accomplishing anything, when one could read at random and laze about.
On a side note, when did children start drinking coffee? We were filming at a classroom at this inner-city junior high and when were finished the production left our starbucks and bagels there and the students were all sitting around sipping java. Huh? I do not approve of this behavior. Does that make me a curmudgeon? Whatever happened to juice?
This was the main shocker: that the finishing of the movie wouldn't provide an abundance of free time. That existence was just going to be filled with other things. I have a list of 30 or so tasks that need to be accomplished before I can catch up in life. And these are neither long-range nor abstract goals, either, but concrete things that need to be done in the next couple of days...and which, of course, will just replaced by other things. This list does not seem to diminish. Ever.
And I am unmarried! Childless! Renting! Healthy!
I know I am not unique in this regard, but when did this list turn from three or four things into thirty? Even just two years ago I feel that I might have had one or two things to do on a day off and the rest of the afternoon and evening could be filled with whatever. Now there's just this interminable list and the backlog of responsibilities. Ah, the years of college, when weeks could go by without accomplishing anything, when one could read at random and laze about.
On a side note, when did children start drinking coffee? We were filming at a classroom at this inner-city junior high and when were finished the production left our starbucks and bagels there and the students were all sitting around sipping java. Huh? I do not approve of this behavior. Does that make me a curmudgeon? Whatever happened to juice?
Friday, April 28, 2006
Good Night and Good Luck
The Front Porch is going offline for awhile....but will resurface at a private new address....
For members only!
More and more I realize that I cannot say what I really want to here. All of my scathing Hollywood stories need to come out somehow...somewhere else, I think.
Thanks for reading the Front Porch. It has been a good ride.
Send me an email if you are interested in the new location.
See ya.
For members only!
More and more I realize that I cannot say what I really want to here. All of my scathing Hollywood stories need to come out somehow...somewhere else, I think.
Thanks for reading the Front Porch. It has been a good ride.
Send me an email if you are interested in the new location.
See ya.
Monday, April 24, 2006
Fun Times in the LBC
"When you in the LBC lookin for a fly car, come to Cal Worthington and tell'im Snoop Dogg sentcha!"
--old Cal Worthington radio spot
So Saturday the NFF and I headed down to SanDiegofied, gentrified Long Beach for fun and adventures. The LBC has more to offer than one might think. And LBC doesn't stand for Long Beach Crips, dammit! (although it used to, perhaps). We have to reclaim our language from the sinister gang element, yall! So Z and I created our to-do list and got on the cloggy 405, trying to navigate her highbrow golfcart hybrid into a nonexistent carpool lane as black rainclouds congealed overhead.
To Do List:
1. Acres of Books
2. Oysters
3. Aquarium
4. Movie
My eighth year in Los Angeles and I finally made it to Acres of Books, the only decent used bookstore in the megalopolis. Huge and musty and disorganized with secret rooms...stacks reaching to unreachable vaulted ceilings...shelves leaning at 30 degree angles under which one must tread softly, lest he get buried alive by literature.
For E:
Midaq Alley, Naguib Mahfouz
Pass the Butterworms, Tim Cahill
Created in Darkness By Troubled Americans, McSweeneys
Greasy Lake & Other Stories, T. Coraghessan Boyle
(all male, it has been noted)
For Z:
Lizard, Banana Yoshimoto
Female Travel Narratives (forget the author)
Next was King's Oyster Bar on Pine St. (where I took the folks when they were down last Halloween). This is a picture of that obscure object of desire:
This is a picture of E waiting expectantly:
This is a picture of gluttony:
This is a picture of Z's Cadillac Margarita:
This is a picture of a 3000-calorie brick of bread pudding. Yum!
This is a picture of E and Z in a manic Post-Pudding Coma!
Afterward we staggered down to the pier, trying desperately to stay awake. This is a picture of E in all of his pink-shirted glory:
Aquarium? Some other time.
Movie? Hmmm.
All in all, a good time was had in the LBC. You can even take the blue line there! (Or Ghetto Blue, as it is sometimes referred). Do not underestimate the LBC. Visit your home away from home. Visit the LBC.
--old Cal Worthington radio spot
So Saturday the NFF and I headed down to SanDiegofied, gentrified Long Beach for fun and adventures. The LBC has more to offer than one might think. And LBC doesn't stand for Long Beach Crips, dammit! (although it used to, perhaps). We have to reclaim our language from the sinister gang element, yall! So Z and I created our to-do list and got on the cloggy 405, trying to navigate her highbrow golfcart hybrid into a nonexistent carpool lane as black rainclouds congealed overhead.
To Do List:
1. Acres of Books
2. Oysters
3. Aquarium
4. Movie
My eighth year in Los Angeles and I finally made it to Acres of Books, the only decent used bookstore in the megalopolis. Huge and musty and disorganized with secret rooms...stacks reaching to unreachable vaulted ceilings...shelves leaning at 30 degree angles under which one must tread softly, lest he get buried alive by literature.
For E:
Midaq Alley, Naguib Mahfouz
Pass the Butterworms, Tim Cahill
Created in Darkness By Troubled Americans, McSweeneys
Greasy Lake & Other Stories, T. Coraghessan Boyle
(all male, it has been noted)
For Z:
Lizard, Banana Yoshimoto
Female Travel Narratives (forget the author)
Next was King's Oyster Bar on Pine St. (where I took the folks when they were down last Halloween). This is a picture of that obscure object of desire:
This is a picture of E waiting expectantly:
This is a picture of gluttony:
This is a picture of Z's Cadillac Margarita:
This is a picture of a 3000-calorie brick of bread pudding. Yum!
This is a picture of E and Z in a manic Post-Pudding Coma!
Afterward we staggered down to the pier, trying desperately to stay awake. This is a picture of E in all of his pink-shirted glory:
Aquarium? Some other time.
Movie? Hmmm.
All in all, a good time was had in the LBC. You can even take the blue line there! (Or Ghetto Blue, as it is sometimes referred). Do not underestimate the LBC. Visit your home away from home. Visit the LBC.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Epistolating, Vol. 1
The NFF and I have decided to take a two-week break from the tyranny of modern communication devices. This will never do out in the real world, of course, so we will confine our little experiment to our little world and the two inhabitants inside of it.
These are the rules:
1. No telephoning (land lines are telephones too!)
2. No emailing
3. No texting
4. Telegraph okay, if you can find it
5. In person visits allowed--encouraged, in fact.
6. Letters are the preferred mode of communication
7. Letters must be handwritten
8. Letters must be worthy of their permanence
9. Letters may not overlap (waiting for the other person is part of the whole deal)
10. Quitting is not okay.
And, oh yeah...
11. Blogging is not a modern COMMUNICATION device, per se.
12. No faxing. Faxing should be made illegal, anyway.
Of course, I immediately tried to turn it into a competition, with rewards and punishments and rankings, but since this was her idea I have to defer... :(
We're not sure what this is going to accomplish but I will be happy to blog about it as it happens.
Glad to be back in the blogosphere. NFF is harassing me about my recent non-blogging so hopefully I can make up for lost time. What's going on w/ Ostertag? I step away for a few weeks and all hell breaks loose.
These are the rules:
1. No telephoning (land lines are telephones too!)
2. No emailing
3. No texting
4. Telegraph okay, if you can find it
5. In person visits allowed--encouraged, in fact.
6. Letters are the preferred mode of communication
7. Letters must be handwritten
8. Letters must be worthy of their permanence
9. Letters may not overlap (waiting for the other person is part of the whole deal)
10. Quitting is not okay.
And, oh yeah...
11. Blogging is not a modern COMMUNICATION device, per se.
12. No faxing. Faxing should be made illegal, anyway.
Of course, I immediately tried to turn it into a competition, with rewards and punishments and rankings, but since this was her idea I have to defer... :(
We're not sure what this is going to accomplish but I will be happy to blog about it as it happens.
Glad to be back in the blogosphere. NFF is harassing me about my recent non-blogging so hopefully I can make up for lost time. What's going on w/ Ostertag? I step away for a few weeks and all hell breaks loose.
Saturday, April 08, 2006
Ballot Box Stuffing and Lagniappery
Sorry to use the Front Porch as a film-based propaganda page, but I must. In conjunction with Worldfest, a low-rez trailer from "Way of the Puck" is showing on the 24-7 Show page:
http://www.247show.com/watch-videos-online.cfm/cid/29/sid/232
Ratings are derived from votes, so I encourage everyone to vote and vote often. Five stars, yo! How can I buy your vote?
Of course, a better resolution teaser, trailer, and other lagniappe are available on the WOTP website:
http://wayofthepuck.com
Can lagniappe be pluralized?
Shout out to Boonasty for getting me off my a** and having Worldfest link to the WOTP site.
Keep on truckin,
The Management
http://www.247show.com/watch-videos-online.cfm/cid/29/sid/232
Ratings are derived from votes, so I encourage everyone to vote and vote often. Five stars, yo! How can I buy your vote?
Of course, a better resolution teaser, trailer, and other lagniappe are available on the WOTP website:
http://wayofthepuck.com
Can lagniappe be pluralized?
Shout out to Boonasty for getting me off my a** and having Worldfest link to the WOTP site.
Keep on truckin,
The Management
Thursday, April 06, 2006
March Madness
I have been remiss, I'm sorry. I've been Busy Beyond Belief, which is no excuse, I know, I have been in Read-Only Mode. I have been visiting the blogosphere but not participating. There is working and sleeping and then working and sleeping and then a little bit of stressing and then working and sleeping some more.
Some day it will all end.
There are new digs in West Hollywood.
There are fifteen 12- to 14 hour days in a row.
There is the impending film festival and the last-minute effort to meet a deadline.
There is the trip to Vegas, which ends poorly.
There is the sickness, and the fever, and the vomiting.
There is the mail piling up, piling.
There is the myth of Sisyphus and all that junk.
There are the flakes and the AWOLs and the dealbreakers.
There is the malfunctioning iPod.
There is the new female friend on the scene.
There are a lot of things.
Some day it will all end.
There are new digs in West Hollywood.
There are fifteen 12- to 14 hour days in a row.
There is the impending film festival and the last-minute effort to meet a deadline.
There is the trip to Vegas, which ends poorly.
There is the sickness, and the fever, and the vomiting.
There is the mail piling up, piling.
There is the myth of Sisyphus and all that junk.
There are the flakes and the AWOLs and the dealbreakers.
There is the malfunctioning iPod.
There is the new female friend on the scene.
There are a lot of things.
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