Twilight Time

Netflix delivered the vampire film Twilight. I didn't even order it. A DVD showed up in my mailbox with a hand-written letter that said, "Don't cry, weakling." I'm not even sure what that means. But right now I'm wondering if the mailman might be responsible: given me a neighbor's movie and added that note. Mailman or psycho at Netflix? How to respond? Could there be a clue in the film? Is there a scene where a post man fights off a yappy dog, but fails to spot the vampire teenager that turns him into the undead? How am I responsible? More research is needed.

Tom Ruegger and the Vulture Project

Awoke this morning and shuffled to the kitchen minus crutches, moving at the pace of a very healthy 106-year-old. I look forward to greater adventures in the days to come.

Worked all last week on my animated script, then jumped into editing the short story. I finished Monday night, sending it out at almost 8k words. That comes out to 43 pages in New Courier font. A very exhausting process as I had to expand, add clarifying information and erase material simultaneously to stay under the word limit. Once again, a big thanks to the readers. An altered ending proved, I think, more satisfying and truer to what had been set-up. Electronic high-fives to all.

Which led me to yesterday morning. Paul Rugg, Sherri Stoner, Deanna Oliver, Tom Ruegger and myself gathered at a local studio for vulture recordings. Forging a long improvised story proved challenging, but Tom hauled us forward to a resolution. He seemed quite happy with the day's catch, and I have no reason to doubt we hooked more than we released. I felt weary and torpid the whole session. More sleep should improve my perspective. Meanwhile, Tom will add a lick of animatic and a dash of music to today's work and produce something to shop around.

And the studio was free of bees. I really liked that.

Farewell to Bees

Sometimes I think of the house I sold last year, home to us for twelve years - longer than anywhere I'd ever lived. I miss watching the San Gabriel Mountains, especially at dusk, as the sun flung out massive shadows, burning a bright red as it dipped into the Pacific.

But I don't miss the stinking bees. (Or rabbits, or coyotes, but they have their separate tales.)

The bees didn't actually smell as in insects that stung and stunk up the place. But this time of year they'd swarm, and a swarm would descend on my house, and it would cost a hundred bucks to de-bee. Scouts arrived first, whistling, six hands in their pockets, pretending to pollinate a flower, but really casing the place. Next day I'd hear a loud buzzing from under the house or under an eave and once inside a gardening box on the balcony, indicating they'd successfully immigrated. You've heard the expression, "Busy as a bee?"Well they are brutally industrious. First they build a comb for the queen. If unmolested,  that modest little comb cottage will become a bee high-rise. After one of my Southeast Asia journeys, I returned after three weeks to find a massive bee sub-division. The structure they'd built on the underside of my split level was intricate and astounding, and heavy with honey. Even the exterminator was impressed, admitting later he'd used up all the poison in his canister just to whack this one mega colony. Stuck with clean-up, I had to climb a tall ladder and knock down the sub-division with a rake, ducking chunks of honey-filled wax dropping past my head to splat on the dirt.  This new mess had to be policed at once because various animals would be drawn to the scent of honey and die from bee poison. Hollywood is so much like that and it thrives on buzz. 

Anyway, today I finished my animated script, sent it in, invoiced and napped, and didn't have to bee wrangle. That's got me feeling pretty darn good. 

NOTE: I tried explaining all the above to the new owner, but he and his wife laughed merrily. "We love bees. My father wants to put a hive in the backyard." Clearly, this was a man who fancied bees, in a family of bee fanciers. I hope they still do.  

Confused by Success

Rushing to finish my animated script, and collate short story notes, by Friday. A check arrived for an outline last week. I hadn't seen a check in so long, I grew confused and called the Bomb Squad. Alas, they'd been laid off, but the city sent over a homeless man with a long bamboo pole. He poked the envelope, pronouncing it safe. I tipped him with a jelly glass of wine and a blueberry Nutri-Grain bar. Everyone left happy and how often does that happen dealing with the government?

Happy Father's Day!

Way to go, Dads! Youth and experience belong to the kids, but fathers possess cunning and hard-earned wisdom. As the philosopher Lao Ming once said, "The wise owl is the owl with a mouth full of mice, while the father with a mouth full of mice is often subdued by authorities."

As a Matter of Fact...

A few remarks on Froynlaven's post: the films we viewed were ZONTAR The Thing from Venus and a Japanese horror movie with aliens and a city-busting monster that got bombed more than Berlin. (That's Irving Berlin, legendary song-writer and ferocious tippler. But more on that later.)

Paul was laid off from a dating show writing gig at CBS. I was working for a company called Mac Temps. They sent me out on day jobs to companies with Mac computers because they were so different. (Being a Mac Temp is a little like saying I used to dress in a bowler hat and spats like the cats on Mighty Mouse.) All this happened in December. The scripts we'd turned in looked like money for Christmas and more powdered donuts. But we were soon awash in real donuts, plus eclairs, bear claws, chocolate bars and fresh coffee so hot it made your teeth glow a fiery red. (Then again, we may have been drinking isotope water. I haven't felt well lately.) Tom Ruegger's assistant, the admirable Kathy Page, called later to set up a meeting with Tom and Sherri Stoner. Paul and I had made it! We were employed in TV animation - the back porch of show biz (according to certain ham-headed animation executives.)

That same day, Monday, December 16, Acme director M.D. Sweeney leased a store front in North Hollywood that would become the new home of Acme Comedy Theatre.

Low overhead and big checks - that was a fine, crackling time.



h/t: flixvendor

Short and Shorter

Three intense writing days have ended. I finally have a readable draft that I will clean up and submit to fine readers on the morrow.

Tonight I will celebrate with YouTube and watch World at War and The Larry Saunders Show.

Two-Story Building

My animated project still waits. I'm trying to power through this short story. Ha. That's rich. The thing is a tome. I could drop it on a cat and cause pain. It's gonna be around 8k words, roughly 30 pages. I had to lose a pair of characters and change the lead from a Bill Mahr type to someone less caustic whom the reader might like. The upside is that all elements have been laid. The table is set. All I have to do is eat. Then get back to writing the story.

Spy Jerks and Animated Scripts

Big squabble between spy chiefs over who gets to pick the top U.S. spy in each country. I guess it's like the swim suit competition. Good thing the intelligence services "reorganized" several years back, increasing efficiency by adding more bureaucrats. You want our guys to do well, but the big dogs arguing in public over turf doesn't inspire confidence.

Back to animation. I finally got the green light on my script - the one where the contract is half as long as the script itself. I'm looking to have fun and maybe get it done by next Monday. I've got that short-story due to go out on June 27 and still need to re-write extensively.

I haven't posted a bad horror movie trailer in days. My hands tremble.

AMAZING INCREDIBLE TRAILER MADNESS

When will it end? Who can say? Who will be the one to end it? Watch if you dare for the unbelievable, astounding conclusion!

Harlan Ellison Lets It Rip

A big fan of Pinky and the Brain, author Harlan Ellison zings Warner Bros. over working for free. Alas, I'm guilty of said crime (Freak DVDs), but have ceased on writing gigs. Recently, I've passed on several opportunities to contribute time and effort to some project for a murky future payoff. It's a miserable scam. The interview is from a documentary on Ellison called Dreams With Sharp Teeth.

h/t: factualfactory

Sit-Com Report

Finally heard back from my agent. She enjoyed the sit-com, liked the story, but felt the three main characters needed a bit more distinguishing. Fair enough. And not a particularly thorny fix, as these matters go.  As often happens, the material execs will read changes with the seasons. For a long time they wanted a sample of a currently running sit-com. Since the great sit-com die-off, they now want an original script. Also, I learned one of the major animation studios is reluctant to even take pitches from me since one exec doesn't feel anything I've written is "funny enough." That's like sending back a cup of coffee because the liquid isn't "wet enough." Idiosyncratic. Unanswerable. But bound to change once the new script gets out there.

As to my paying animation gig, I've completed the outline and will send it out on the morrow. That means income. I'm faint and girlish thinking about it. 

My friend Dale, whom I've written about for the last two years, has taken another head-butt from cancer. He's been opened up so many times his stomach has lost all elasticity, intestines tied and re-tied into a complicated mess. On Sunday, he was rushed in for emergency surgery after a leak had developed in his mangled guts. And while Dale survived, his pain is immense. When I saw him today, his eyes were popped out from all the morphine. We sat and watched Hawaii 5-0 until he fell asleep. 

Keep him in your prayers, as well as his family. They watch and wait. 

Paperwork

I'm reading over the contract for my half-hour script. It's fifteen pages long. The script itself is only thirty pages long. Apparently, the studio won't be comfortable unless I sign over all gas, oil and mineral rights to any land I may walk across during the execution of the script, plus agree to mediate disputes before a tribunal consisting of attorneys related to studio executives.

It's a simple business where a man's handshake is his bond.

Estonian Documentary

The protagonist of my short story has shifted from a friendly guy to a snarky Bill Mahr-like fellow. I'm not sure how this happened, but it eliminated a plot point that kept growing more contrived each draft. As this is a horror story with most of the characters biting it, the change works better.

Just saw an amazing documentary on Estonia. When it comes to the screwed-over-nation-derby, Estonia is neck-and-neck with South Vietnam, Poland and Cambodia. (Plus neighbors Lithuania and Latvia.) Conquered by the Soviets, then the Nazis, then the Soviets again, Estonia was absorbed into the Soviet Union and held captive for over over 50 years. The people used a national song festival to keep alive Estonian culture and, eventually, win independence without violence. What a great feature film this would make. Alas, Hollywood would change the bad guys from Commies to the Vatican, make all the songs rap, and let J.J. Abrams direct so you couldn't tell what what the heck was going on.

New Star Trek

In the midst of writing a short story that seems to mirror the stimulus package - a massive tome crammed with wads of fat - I took my wife to see Star Trek. Overall, I enjoyed it. I thought the director overdirected much of the action stuff. Close-ups, zippy cuts, and a hyperactive camera overwhelmed certain scenes. There's nothing wrong with letting action speak for itself. But time and styles change.

Live long and perspire!

Knee Rehab and Writing

A few more days before I hear back from my paying job. Meanwhile I'm ascending the scale poundwise as I prepare for a torpid month of recovery. Last time off my feet, I blimped out in depression. This time, I'd better unblimp as my repaired knee will thank a lighter me once it's run time again.

Dashed through my research and started the short story anyway. Despite being fed up with prep work, I believe it helped. The interactive outline method, coupled with questioning the characters has lent my writing more heft. I really want to layer this story instead of blasting out a tale heavy on action but light on anything else such as themes, metaphors, symbolism or other boring things.

This time I'm more willing to wait and see what emerges. And maybe have a couple of snacks while I'm at it; bag of pretzels, a power bar, apple, turkey dinner; the usual.

The Things They Say

I put my short story characters through their paces today and asked them:

1. What they thought of the government spending trillions of dollars.

2. If they were filling out a job application, what would be their strong points?

3. Talking to a shrink, what are their weak points?

4. What did they think of Susan Boyle on "Britain Has Talent?"

Illuminating answers; most I expected, a few I didn't. I've got to research two items tomorrow, then let the whole thing rest for the weekend. I'll start a new draft next Monday. 

That is, unless my paying gig decides to proceed. Nice gig. Good gig. 

Close to Countdown

Surgery could be around May 20. My orthopaedist tried talking me out of continued running, failed, then acknowledged it was a standard warning administered to runners. He admitted his goal was avoiding knee replacement surgery. I said 'me too.' We parted on good terms. Working on a short story using an interactive outline. Rather than the school outline of Roman numerals, numbers and letters, the interactive form engages you with questions as to why you're considering this or that plot point. I'm always challenged to examine why I've included something, without having to know all the answers. ("I don't know" is acceptable.) Also, I've added a feature where I'll question characters on something unrelated to the story. For instance, I'm currently writing a horror story set on a small ship. But I'll ask my characters to react to waiting in a long movie line only to discover the film is sold out. How they react tells me who they are. I also have them speak to one other on some political or news topic. This is time-saving since my usual approach was to write a draft, then another, and gradually find the voices. Knowing characters better allows room for growth. And if they cross me...out of the story! I don't like doing that, but sometimes they leave me no choice.

Equal Time

While mentioning Vietnam, I neglected Cambodia. The Khmer Republic fell on April 12, 1975. U.S. helicopters airlifted out our embassy staff, a few Cambodians, and the press. We didn't bother telling the Cambodian government we were leaving. And while we spirited away the man who'd been prime minister for the last three days, several members of his cabinet refused evacuation, staying to suffer the fate of their people. Prince Sisoweth Sirik Matak, Long Boret, and Lon Non were executed by the Khmer Rouge. What a grave that country became. They still haven't unearthed all the Killing Fields.

Every April, around Buddha's birthday, I send an email to a Khmer friend whom I met in Cambodia. She was five when the communists took over. Her father was taken to the grounds of a factory and shot. She and her mother were forced to work in the rice paddies. Starving, they ate bugs. Nowadays, her teenage daughter doesn't believe things were so bad. ("Bugs! Why would you eat bugs! That's so gross.")

And for all that, the Cambodians were remembered in a film - The Killing Fields, which twisted itself into intricate yoga poses to mitigate Khmer Rouge savagery.

Hollywood's good for a couple of Nazi films every year. But no one's made a movie yet on Darfur, or North Korea or Mao's butchery of 60 million Chinese. I guess some slaughters are more equal than others.

A Little Known Occasion

Yesterday marked the fall of South Vietnam. I know because my Vietnamese barber told me. He fled Saigon in 1975 with no money and no English skills whatsoever.
(Even now, he tends to drop endings such as "hou" for "house," and "paspa" for "passport." You have to pay attention, but the meaning comes through.)

Eventually reaching America, he waited four years for his family to bribe their way onto a boat out of Vietnam. They did, reaching a refugee camp in Malaya. Eventually, my guy got them over here. Thirty-four years have passed since the day he boarded a helicopter under rocket fire. Now he in lives quietly in the San Gabriel Valley, cuts hair in La Canada and pays for two daughters in college.

He knows I've been in Vietnam and Cambodia, but never recalls why. Or my name. His first question is, "You travel somewhere?" I'm certain he thinks I'm always in motion, like a deep ocean shark.

Today I told him I was glad he made it out of Vietnam.

He was too.