Happy Ghostbusting Halloween!

A day of spooks and kooks only slightly different than most days in Los Angeles. Last night on Hollywood Boulevard 100 people in costume duked it out. They'll probably do the same next week. A pleasant Halloween to all!


h/t: scottymyshkin

South Park Not in the Clear

Via The Village Voice, South Park creators Parker and Stone were investigated five years back by the Church of Scientology. Private eyes spied on the pair and searched public records—as well as trash— for anything incriminating that might be used against the duo in retaliation for a South Park episode mocking Scientology beliefs.

Never a dull moment with the Hubbardites.

Orange You Glad You Wrote That

An NYT article mentions Warner chum Tom Sheppard as The Annoying Orange prepares to roll from Web to TV pilot to potential series. (Would it be wrong to say this proves Glee won't be the only televised home for fruit?)

And The Beasts Shall Inherit Ohio

Trouble in Zanesville (home of former Acme Comedy Theatre founder M.D. Sweeney) as all creatures great and small with big teeth bolt from the Zanesville Zoo.

Via Instapundit

Fab-oo and Amazon

Tom Ruegger reminds us who got the Emmy ball rolling at the WB.

Also, Amazon offers the Kindle edition of R. Scott McCoy's Necrotic Tissue Best of Anthology containing my short tale, "Dagon and Jill."

So there's all kind of news.

Carl Macek's Robotech Universe

There's no tech like Robotech. This '80s hit animated TV series introduced anime to America where it's taken root and grown ever since. And no one made that happen more than the late Carl Macek. Felled by a heart attack in 2010, Macek was honored last night in a documentary at Harmony Gold Theater on Sunset Blvd. (And because my wife works occasionally with the film's associate producer, we attended.)

Culled from the 25th Anniversary DVD and originally intended as a series of podcasts, the doc featured Robotech voice actors such as Tony Oliver, Richard Epcar and Reba West. From the the insane production schedule that had actors pulling overnights, to scripts being rewritten in studio, to the undreamed of success that greeted the series, to its staying power over decades, Keith H. Maxwell's documentary described producer/ story editor Macek as the turbine that kept the Robotech machinery spinning.

In addition, Macek founded Streamline Pictures with Jerry Beck and theatrically released anime giant Akira. (I've always been strangely drawn to films featuring a gang of evil clowns.) Macek also helped John Kricfalusi establish Spumco.

Following the screening, I spoke briefly with David Keith Riddick, who produced the U.S. versions of the Robotech soundtrack. (On RECORD ALBUMS—round vinyl things with music inside that came out when you stuck them with a needle.) Riddick recalled that Macek loved anime with its more adult themes, carefully crafted animation, and cinematic staging.

Clearly Macek's love grew into a drive for perfection and character depth that flowed into a series that has lived on, spawned sequels and now sits poised at Warner Bros. waiting to become a live-action feature.

Prior to last night, I knew a bit about Robotech but very little about Carl Macek. Today, I salute the guy. He had a monster career, cut a bit short, but pretty darn rich any way you slice it. Rest in anime peace, sir.

Image: Robotech.com and Robotechnology

Anthology Update

Per publisher R. Scott McCoy, the anthology containing "Dagon and Jill" is available on ebook at Smashwords.

Best of Necrotic Tissue Anthology for Me

Not necessarily me, but my short story "Dagon and Jill" will be featured in the Best of Necrotic Tissue Anthology to be released next week. I'll provide more info soon so that those inclined to purchase a copy may indeed do so.

I'm woefully behind in sending material out for publication because of recent disclosures in the John P. McCann writing archives. Busy closing up a storage unit, I've come across a great pile of unfinished novels, young adult books, a screenplay, a social history of the Vietnam War and a travel book on my adventures in Southeast Asia working for the State Department and Warner Bros.

Leafing through the stuff, I realize it doesn't all stink as much as I originally thought. There is material to salvage. In addition, I've uncovered over eleven years of original TV animation ideas that the industry passed on. These can be retooled into other formats.

But my first writing priority—aside from earning money—will be Tomorrow Bear. First pitched in 2007, it was shot down by Nick, Disney and Cartoon Network. Reworked with art from Valerie Tidwell, the show was pitched again last spring and I can't recall who passed on it.

But Valerie and I are slogging away in fits and starts crafting an ebook. She has sent me some very funny sketches and I have delivered her several firm promises to finish up a draft.

So I'm in the hole and need to produce and produce I shall. Next finished fiction project will be a Tomorrow Bear adventure involving ursine crime solving and California police cars that have replaced their sirens with electronic whale calls.

UPDATE
I may interrupt TBear to rewrite and submit "Unreasonable Doubt," my non-fiction piece on jury duty. But other that that, it's TBear or hibernation.

Image: Clipartoday

Hit the Road, Mac Classic

Sweeney talking to a salesman at the Honda dealership.

Cleaning out a storage facility last week, I found a box containing my old Mac Classic, just in time for the passing of Steve Jobs. Back in 1991, M.D. Sweeney accompanied me to the Westwood Mac store and negotiated on my behalf for the computer and a printer. Sweeney is a phenomenal dealer with a deadpan expression like an Olmec mask. Sales reps flash their easy smiles, grow uncomfortable and sometimes offer things at a lower price. (They didn't this time, but even A-Rod strikes out occasionally.) On that computer I wrote many Acme Comedy Theatre sketches as well as my first Animaniacs script, "Dracu-lee, Dracu-la." But it's doing no one any good anymore and is destined for the green waste facility. Farewell, Mac Classic and rest in piece, Mr. Jobs. And if you're ever in Los Angeles, stop by Amalfi Restaurant and see if you can talk the owner (Sweeney) into a free dessert. Let me know how it goes.
Image: antique trader

Unreasonable Doubt VI: Count Down

Over the weekend my mother-in-law moved into a nearby apartment. Saturday and Sunday were spent helping her settle in, going out to dinner, and using her presence as a general excuse to avoid writing anything. For the most part I left the trial downtown. However I did dream Sunday night that I tried to buy a movie ticket in a suit minus socks.

On Monday I carpooled to court with a fellow juror. He worked at Jet Propulsion Laboratories installing microwave electrical smart things into a probe that’s Jupiter bound in a few years. As he explained the project I prompted him with incisive questions such as, “Will your probe deploy a ray of some kind to defend against moon people?”

In turn, he asked me about TV animation and working on Animaniacs. I mentioned that most of our staff writers as well as the senior producer and his assistants smoked cigarettes back then. It was like writing a cartoon under a Vegas crap table—fun, exciting with sudden outbursts of yelling, but smoke really does get in your eyes.

Disney Center where they really know how to park cars.

Downtown in the Disney Center parking lot we ran into one of our alternate jurors—the actress/model. Together, the three of us walked north on Grand Avenue past German tourists snapping photos of a magazine photo shoot busy using the Disney Center as backdrop.

Along with the other alternate—the financial planner—the actress had sat through the whole muttered Korean trial. Now the pair was shutout of deliberations. Banished to the marble benches outside Department 46, our alternates were compelled to wait for the chosen 12 to stitch together decisions on seven counts. To be an alternate was to have dinner without dessert; fore play minus carnal festivities. They were the extras of the legal system.

At the Criminal Court's Building we passed through security, waited for elevators, wriggled our way into a car and arrived finally at the 7^thFloor. Counts 4, 6 and 7 waited ahead like crows on a telephone wire.

In the jury room, the Friday frenzy had evaporated. If showing up on Monday would wreck plans, then those plans were already wrecked. We were here and there was nothing else to do but finish.

Our foreman got the ball rolling. She’d thought matters through over the weekend. Having considered both stories, she’d come to accept the wife’s version of events. In her view, Mr. Pak was guilty on all three remaining counts.

“Would anyone else care to comment?”

Here was an encouraging start. I pointed out that Mr. Pak had demonstrated in count 3 that he wasn’t keen on having cops called. He stood accused of nothing in count 4 that was out of character. I believed him guilty.

One of the psychologists was skeptical, feeling there were elements unsaid about the wife that made her culpable in unknown ways.

Back and forth volleyed rationalists and psychologists with the occasional remark thrown in from the silent minority. (“I think there are crickets outside my bedroom window.”)

Twenty minutes passed. Sensing discussion tapering off, the foreman called for a vote on count 4.

Once again, the count was 11 to 1—

—this time for conviction.

Holding out for acquittal was the regular businessman.

Here was headline news. He'd been a rationalist stalwart, the man who’d eased the pressure when I was a hold out. Now he’d flipped utterly to the psychologists.

"I'm just not sure the husband can be guilty of intimidating her, especially when she already said she wouldn't call the police."

Unreasonable doubt.

A rationalist countered, “The guy just beat and smothered the woman. Then he kicked open the bathroom door and snatched her phone. That’s kinda freaking intimidating.”

“Also she testified as to confusion over who she’d call,”said a psychologist, adding, “if you believe her.”

“Let’s get the transcript,” said another rationalist a bit too helpfully.

That would be like having a fighter on the ropes then pausing to call for a reading of the rulebook. Rationalists and psychologists spoke up, claiming a general sense that the wife wasn’t sure who’d she call.

An impatient psychologist blurted out, “Can we vote again?"

"I believe more time is needed," said the foreman.

Good call. The regular businessman was wavering but might dig in like a badger if he thought we were high-pressuring him.

A few more minutes passed with rationalists and psychologists, respectfully but persistently, double-teaming the holdout.

Finally, the point was made once again that events in the bathroom had nothing to do with anything the wife thought and everything to do with the husband’s actions.

Sensing an opening, the foreman called for another vote on count 4.

12 – 0—guilty.

Two more counts remained.

Count six involved damaging the wife’s cell phone. Count seven dealt somehow with crime and cell phones. The way the counts were worded, it seemed that if you’d sunk Mr. Pak on 4, then 6 and 7 pretty much rolled into the pocket on their own.

There was light deliberation. You sensed that, as a jury, our flag-planting moments had passed.

On the first vote we found the defendant guilty on count 6.

Same procedure and outcome for count 7.

We were almost finished.

The bailiff was summoned by pressing the little button on the wall twice. The foreman filled out her paperwork while the court sent out word for attorneys and clients to reassemble back in Department 46.

I'd seen it on a thousand courtroom dramas, but now I was a member of the jury filing into the courtroom. Last in line, I fumbled around turning off my cell phone before sitting. We had guests today—two men and a woman in suits; lawyers I guessed because they had those wheeled briefcases that looked like carry-on luggage. There was also a young Korean guy wearing a ball cap, which he never removed, slouched on a backbench. In addition, a well-muscled sheriff’s deputy stood near the bailiff, eyes on the defendant.

All our regulars were present. The city attorney had a sheet of paper on the table before her, fingers clasped around a pen as if primed to record the box score.

Moments later: “We the People in the above entitled action find the defendant…”

Unlike the movies, the defendant didn't stand. He took his half-dozen guilties and one acquittal without visible emotion. However his attorney seemed devastated, shoulders hunched, hands clasped, staring straight ahead as if he’d bet his own fingers and toes on the outcome.

Head down, the city attorney quietly marked her paper after every count.

And then it was over.

No one wanted to poll the jury. The judge thanked us for our service and we headed off to the 5^th floor to sign out. I wondered what would happen to the defendant. Oddly enough, time in county jail was a fitting punishment for spousal abuse since you’d spend your waking hours in fear of physical violence.

(Note: Now that I think of it, jail time is unlikely. Due to a Supreme Court ruling, California is decanting convicts from state prisons into county jails to relieve overcrowding. At the same time, the state is granting early release to county inmates. Unfortunately, they’re not releasing them into the neighborhoods of the Supreme Court justices who voted for this game of criminal musical chairs.)

The following week, I received my jury pay of $15 a day plus gas mileage. Seeing the County of Los Angeles move that quickly was like witnessing a glacier sprint a hundred meters. In addition, the judge sent a hand-written letter thanking me for my time in People vs. Pak, noting that the system only worked because people such as myself honored their commitment to serve.

It had been tedious, a time-suck, with tense moments spent coming to agreement with total strangers on the fate of another stranger. On Friday, our desire to resume our lives had clashed with the job at hand. We’d found Mr. Pak guilty on three biggies, so how much justice was necessary?

I believe the weekend arrived just in time. On Monday we were ready to properly see matters out. Calmer, our deliberations went faster and we finished much quicker than many of us had hoped. Six guilty counts seemed about right.

So back to my life.

Perhaps in a year or so I’ll get another summons. Maybe next time, instead of a library book, I’ll carry a Kindle. And if I’m called for a panel, I’ll report knowing what lies ahead in the jury room, neither fearing nor regretting an opportunity to be of service to my city.

Unless the case requires muttering translators.

Then forget it. I'm faking a heart attack.

In the Beginning: Unreasonable Doubt I of VI

Images:globalfilmvillage.com & dwmbeancounter.com

Silencing Your Inner Critic: Five Ways

When I worked at a magazine my editor once labeled writer's block as "paralysis due to endless possibilities." And nothing jams up the flow like our inner critic telling us our prose is dull, treacly and weak. Writer and publishing coach Daphne Gray-Grant offers scribes a few tips on how to shut up that silent scold and crank copy out onto the screen where it properly belongs.

I've reprinted Daphne's free weekly email (giving credit below, for it is due.)

 5 ways to get your inner critic to shut up

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One of my 17-year-old daughters sometimes slaps the side of her own head and says, "stupid, stupid." I don't think anyone -- particularly not one of my kids -- should ever call themselves stupid. But I see writers doing it all the time.

Admit it. You're probably your own harshest critic. By your standards, your writing is never interesting enough. Or persuasive enough. Or well organized enough. In fact, while you're in the middle of the act of writing a voice inside your head is often saying things like: "My boss is going to go crazy when seeing this article." Or, "why would anyone want to read this piece of dreck?" Or, "my sources are going to be so pissed off when they find out which quotes I've used."

Don't you think it's time to tell you inner critic to shut up? Here are five tips for quietening that supremely unhelpful voice:

1) Stop thinking about HOW your work is going to turn out and focus instead on WHAT you are writing. Your job as a writer is to write. When you write, write. When you edit, edit. Don't ever mix up these two entirely separate tasks or you are dooming yourself to remain a slow, pained writer.

2) If, like many people, including me, you have a hard time stopping yourself from editing while you write, resolve to make writing without editing your next project. (I stopped editing while I wrote about 10 years ago and it changed my life.) Try turning off your monitor (or, hanging a dishtowel over it) so you can't see what you're writing. If that seems too drastic, here's a trick I found on Richard Shackcloth's blog (which, sadly, seems to be dormant now): use a hashtag # whenever you spot something you want to fix later. (I love that he describes this as a promissory note!) Furthermore, if something specific occurs to you that you're afraid of forgetting about then write #note: and explain what you want to remember. For example: #note: make sure the VP is really okay with this. Or #note: check spelling. By making this promise to your inner critic you should be able to persuade him or her to become silent.

3) Write with a loud timer clicking in the background. This advice initially seemed counterintuitive to me and I always did my pomodoros with a silent digital timer tracking the minutes. But recently I've discovered the joy of what a friend of mine likes to call "the wall of sound." Something about the ticking not only serves to remind me that I need to be writing (this keeps me off email and the Internet) but it also serves to distract part of my brain so that I simply don't have the mental RAM for self-criticism. You can find "noisy" timers on the Internet or get a kitchen timer from a dollar store.

4) Use Write or Die. I've written about this website before  and urge you again to try it. Simply enter your desired word count, and your self-imposed time limit into the fr/ee software and when you stop writing for more than 10 seconds you'll be "punished" with a screen that changes colour and, following that, by a loud, unpleasant noise. This turns writing into a game, which is a great way of silencing your inner critic. (Critics abhor games.)

5) Put an elastic band on your wrist and snap it every time a self-critical thought goes through your head. For a split second you will have left behind  worries about your writing and shifted them to the (mild) pain on your wrist. This creates the space for you to refocus on your writing.

Remember, your inner critic will have plenty of time to comment when you begin to edit. And at that point those comments may even be useful. But when you are writing, you inner critic should shut the heck up.  
Daphne Gray-Grant is a writing and editing coach and the author of the popular book 8½ Steps to Writing Faster, Better. She offers a brief and free weekly newsletter on her website. Subscribe by going to the Publication Coach.