Good Friday

And a good friday it was.

Sci-Fi Bait

I'm completing a tale about a whale-watching tour that gets far more than it bargained for. I'll finish a draft this week, let it set through next Wed., then second draft, polish and send it to my agent. We'd talked about submitting this short story awhile ago to a director who does Sci-Fi channel creature d'jour movies. If Sci-Fi can do "Kracken: Terror of the Deep," they can do mine.

The animation job from Monday turned out be a game show development gig - minus any money for my time. So I politely passed. After all, I'm already working for free on something I like. Tough to beat.

Armored Vehicles I Have Known

As a kid we lived behind an American Legion Post that had a for-real tank out front. From my G.I. Combat comic book collection, I was able to identify it as a M3A1 Stuart Light Tank. The neighborhood kids loved that hunk of metal. It lent a sense of realism to our war games and provided a handy meeting place since everyone knew where it was.

Having just returned from Chicago last month, I gave my sister Mary Pat a report on the old homestead and the many changes that had occurred. She put her memories in verse:

The Tank

My good brother just told me the tank was gone
They carted it off when they tore down the American Legion
The land now holds luxury condos
That don’t know the richness of the ground they sit atop

Every summer the Legion parking lot would fill with the Ox Roast Carnival
Portable rides and games of chance would go up in a matter of days
Stay up for a matter of weeks
Across the alley from our house and in the center of the fair was that big lawn ornament

I got my first job picking up money at the game where you
Throw dimes at glassware until it goes into the glass and you kept it
People would spend 5 whole dollars
To win a glass that cost thirty cents at the Ben Franklin store

Years later I figured out why my parents refused to
Let me take the early morning job polishing the horses
On the carousel
Just me and the 7 fingered boss early every day didn’t sit well with my folks

In winter the parking lot would have all the snow plowed
Back to the alley so there was a tall mountain range of snow
Outside our back gate
We marched a path across the ridge line to the biggest pile on the corner

We would sled off into the street and start full contact snow ball fights
Some little general would form us into a fighting unit
We trained and drilled
Of course this always involved the tank

If it was our tank we would have to scramble under it to escape enemy fire
If it was an enemy tank that day we had to sabotage it
Lodge grenades in the treads
Scramble out from beneath it at top speed and seek cover behind the snow bunker

One cold winter day I came home for dinner frozen solid and full of stories
Wearing my brand new royal blue ski pants with stirrups that were the rage
There were two little holes in the knee
I cringed at the ruin to my fashion fortune and pulled up the pant leg

Bully brother sat on my left and was quite put out that I was fussing my leg
I was too heartbroken to be cowed by him and I kept up my search
My leg was a bloody mess
Bully blanched and I felt a whole lot better with that small victory

As my leg warmed up the cut started to hurt and the questions came raining
It had to be when we were crawling on our bellies under the tank
Mom said it’ll scar
It did and I stroke that place as I write this poem and wonder what they did with

The Tank

Post-Crash Action

A 30-day moratorium on big rigs driving the Angeles Crest Highway. One of my favorite coffee shops sits adjacent to the gutted bookstore, flush in the bulls eye. Let's hope the problem's fixed before a Peterbilt cab crashes into the middle of my BLT.

Sad News

In La Cañada last week, a huge car carrier lost its brakes and crashed through an intersection, squashing cars and passengers, finally halting inside a charming little book store that my wife and I used to frequent. Vehicles crumpled like pop cans, two dead, a dozen injured and three shops destroyed or damaged. 

Alas, something similar happened last September as a truck descending the Angeles Crest Highway lost its brakes, barreling into a coffee shop parking lot next to the doomed bookstore, mangling seven vehicles. No causalities then, but Cal Trans was notified by La Cañada authorities that these big rigs need slowing. Cal Trans jumped right on it and will, no doubt, cook up something within the next geological epoch. 

Our prayers go out to the victims and survivors.

Sit-Com Completed

With the heavy lifting over on the sit-com, I await reader notes over the coming week. Then off it shall go to my agent. In fact, my agent's office left a message for me on my cell phone last Friday. I haven't heard from them in so long, I thought it was a prank call. I'll have to check in Monday, just to be sure. They may actually have work for me, thus throwing off my busy schedule.

Pre-Beta Reader Polish

Tidying up the script for the Saturday send-out to designated readers. Nothing seems too funny at this juncture since I've seen the lines over and over. But I'll resist the temptation to re-write the whole thing.

Friday Sitcom Update

Up for air after powering through the first two acts. I hope to finish act 3 this weekend, then work on something else for a few days while the story marinates. My goal is to complete another draft and polish, then send out the script to trusted friends for review, spruce it up and off to my agent by the third week of April.

So, by next Friday I will complete act three and polish.

How's everyone been?

Good Catch

About that sitcom . . . I'm looking at notes last night and suddenly come up with a great NEW idea. I jot down some thoughts and it looks even funnier. This morning I'm about to re-file my old idea, when I stop myself. I have "new project fever," a condition whereby anything NEW seems more worthy of attention than something OLD that's encrusted with several problem-filled drafts. Fortunately, I stopped myself. Other than a general incoherence, the OLD contains many usable lines. Info needs to be reshuffled and the acts could use some sanding. So to work. No Evil Dead II laugh breaks. No Iranian loon-theories. No NEW ideas.

Tom and Jerry: Zionist Tools

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In the crazy world of animation, you learn something new everyday. For example, in Iran, Professor Hasan Bolkhari lectured students on how Zionists manufactured propaganda cartoons like Tom and Jerry. He also discovered through his scholarship that the characters were animated by Disney and not MGM. In later lectures, Professor Bolkhari explained why Dora The Explorer was a metaphor for Israeli Special Forces, and why lovable Doug was created in order to manipulate children into accepting Jewish/Masonic world domination. Currently, the Professor is working on a book, I Can't Wait for Iran to Have a Nuclear Weapon.

h/t: The Religion of Peace

Inaugural Talk Like William Shatner Day

Maurice "Brain" LaMarche has declared today to be the first. He . . . explains here. (Sharp inhale.)

Unfinished Writing

I opened the hard copy file on my sit-com. After flipping through three drafts, I opened Final Cut, started a new file, choose sit-com format, closed and saved the file. After which I went to the gym. Could the following action sequence be why I have boxes of drafts and three-ring binders stuffed with the uncompleted?

Ha, no more. This thing's getting finished.

Right after I watch Evil Dead II.



Or maybe I'll write instead.

What Shall I Write Next?

The tribe has spoken: from here, Facebook, plus conversations with my wife and friends, we have a muted vote for the Viking, three votes for the aliens, and a resounding Huzzah! for the sit-com.

Sit-com it shall be. My last draft was October with economic circumstances fast overtaking the story. The fact that times are tough only helps the narrative, though I'm not 100 percent sure just how.

In any case, let Friday be report day. Next Friday, I will have an entry on the week's work. This will continue until I finish a draft.

Should this project succeed in getting me a paying job, we're all heading out to Griffith Park in Los Angeles. If small horses scare you, there's still the wee train ride. (But no boats at Disneyland.)

The Three

So far the tide is running unanimously toward sit-com. In fact, opinion favors a program based on the adventures of a chicken named Flip who can tell the future - or can he? Flip is owned by a man no older than 23 and has a neighbor named Mr. Wilson whose catchphrase is: "Here come da eggs!" Of course, I've crafted nothing that creative.

My sitcom is about three "Dodgeball"-like slackers who inherit a party clown business in Santa Barbara.

Novel 1 tells the story of a young suburban teen who reluctantly helps snotty aliens catch an interstellar bad guy using the power of ventriloquism.

Novel 2 is a graphic novel about a pacifist college professor who, through a bizarre chain of circumstances, finds himself turning into blood-thirsty viking whenever someone says "child crisis" or any other phrase found in It Takes a Village.

Friday will be decision day.

Updates will be bi-weekly.

Pony rides hang in the balance.

Projects Three

I have before me projects three,

A novel,

And another,

And a sit-com, see?

Complete?

Ignore?

Help me decide,

And for such aid,

You'll get a pony ride.

(Paul has infected me with contest fever. The projects will be listed tomorrow. Help me choose which to finish. I can't guarantee any fancy prize, but I can promise a pony ride. And I have.)

Super-Memory Man

Before he was Super-Memory Man, Bob acquired other names based around the root word "Asa." "Asa" was how Bob's Pennsylvania accent rendered the phrase, "That is" or "That's" as in "Asa pretty good sketch." As a result, he became Robert Asa, Bob Asa, Bobby Asa, Bobby A, Mel Asa, and others that Bob would remember.

Nightline story here.

See the Astounding Robert Petrella!

I've known Bob many a year, extending back to our L.A. Connection days. This evening, he'll appear on Nightline, in a story showcasing Bob's phenomenal memory. Heavy on sports info, Bob's memory contains so many Pittsburgh Steeler thoughts, the Steelers should pay him for warehousing their past. In any case, I won't forget to watch this evening as Bob puts that heavy duty mind through its paces.

Housekeeping

Henceforth, most of my running, recovery, exercise posts will be on a separate site. I've been meaning to do this for awhile in order to use Write Enough as something more than a training log.

Next week I will ask the Write Enough family to help me choose which half-finished project I should complete next.

To all (or both) who entered Paul's Ethel Merman/Flipper contest, I am wearing a hat indoors just to tip it in your direction.

Doctors and Swimming and Knees, Oh, My!

Monday I'll visit the HMO-approved orthopedist. Here's hoping this fine medical fellow approves my MRI. I wanna know whaz'sup with my knees. Besides, swimming is becoming dangerous. My health club pool turned into a free-for-all yesterday. Are Friday's Savage Swim Days? I'm not sure. But between machine-like swimmers tearing up the lanes, big fat men bobbing aimlessly like rogue planets, very pregnant women attempting to organize the chaos, and teenagers determined to jack the chaos up to professional levels, I was grateful to escape the water unmarked. Sunday morning, I'm taking a "swim test" with an organization set up to assist the older swimmer. I think they want to see how many laps I can do without swallowing half the pool. Then they make recommendations such as lessons or finding another sport. I could be looking at no running for months. So, it's time to find out what I can do and do it.

Just not on Fridays.   

From Asia

More from way over there.

Dogacide

My neighbors have two forms of communication: loud, angry hectoring and unrestrained rage. Mother yells at child who yells at dog: Maslow's aggression displacement. As a result, the dog, a book-sized yappy beast, has become emotionally fragile. I lay down early this evening for a nap, but quit when the dog began a high-pitched, barking jag. Naturally, its neurotic owners weren't home. I considered various forms of quieting the animal: buying a small dog of the opposite sex, poison meat, singing to it. Eventually, the Dysfunctionals returned and the dog clammed up, knowing a drum-load of aggression would soon be emptied onto its wee furry head. It's really not the dog's fault. Mother yells at child who yells at dog who yaps away who upsets neighbor who silences dog with a trench shovel. But they'd just get another. And if I truncheon the neighbors, then I risk prison where I'd sit around all day without meaningful work. Like now. Maybe I'm under house arrest? Maybe this has already happened. Jurassic Park III is on television. Instead of Sam Neil and Tia Leoni, I imagine my neighbors and their dog trapped on an island of hungry prehistoric beasts. Then I imagine all the dinosaurs swimming away exasparated. But neighbors and dog remain on the island. I feel better.

Ruegger Storyboard Sample (In Color!)

As promised, here is sample of what Tom Ruegger is doing in the animated squirrel department. Thanks to Keeper for recalling the original post.

Growing Nuts

Back in December, Paul and I recorded voices for characters drawn by Tom Ruegger. Since then, Tom's been working on getting the characters animated. Shortly, I should have a sample from the storyboard of two squirrels whose argument on nuts soars into philosophic realms before descending to an earthier plane.

My Sucky Swimming

Had to meet some friends out in the San Gabriel Valley this afternoon. My health club is on the way, so I stopped for an hour of swimming. First I kickboarded 20 lengths. This was harder than it looked, at least for me.  Then I swam freestyle for awhile, but have terrible form and end up gasping for air at the end of every length. I didn't swallow water, but maybe that'll come if I swim more often.

Hurry up MRI!

Tubby Man in a Doctor's Office

That's me. I was weighed at the doctor's office yesterday and the technician giggled and asked if I had recently performed in any aquatic parks. (Later, I "accidentally" spilled urine on her shoe.) But there's no denying that in six months of injury, I've put on 20 pounds. Now I must commit to losing weight. I'm so unmotivated, but I really don't want to go back to 244 pounds with ridges of fat on my back like sand dunes. So, off to the gym today, then my wife and I will order in pizza . . . maybe not for a few weeks.

Laptop Face

A strange man obsessed with bread products relates his day.

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Peg's Wedding

Cousin Peg's Windy City nuptials. Other than not having pictures of the ceremony, groom, and bride's mom, I pretty well covered this thing.

Running and Walking the Foothills

Trails above Jet Propulsion Labs in the San Gabriel foothills. Mostly an excuse to explore the slideshow thing on iPhoto.


UPDATE: I actually ran and walked 5.3 miles, stopping to photograph now and then. Knee felt Okay, but still needs a'fixin.'

UPDATE: Visited my new doctor today. He's going to recommend an orthopedist - huzzah! But no running 'till then. MRI. Everyone think MRI.

View from a Window

What lay outside my Windy City hotel room.

Paul Recalls "Good Days"

Froynlaven remembers the Pea . . . . . . . . bodies!

Something Old, Something New

Old for regulars, new for all my old Chicago friends.

Comic-Con 2008: Freakazoid & Tiny Toons

Snow Place Like Chicago

Snow flurries last night with a few inches accumulation this morning. Temps were in the 20s as I arrived at O'Hara Airport. My flight home was delayed because hydraulic fluid spilled under the plane and they had to mop it up. Back in LA with temperatures in the 70s the way they're supposed to be in February.

A few pictures to post from my cousin's wedding, but not just now.

ZZZZZZZZZZZZ!

Vienna Againa

Scraping ice off the windshield of my rental car, driving in torrential rains, cold, snow flurries all in less than 24 hours. Ah, Chicago weather! Drove out to Lake County to see Oakner and few old friends from St. George days. Oakner was there and Head, and Steve.  Now we're pasty old men, but from age 14 to 16 we ran around Chicago's Roger's Park engaging in various fun projects. Head could imitate his father's gruff Hungarian accent and was able to order booze from the liquor store at will. The delivery man was in on the score, and accepted very large tips for keeping teenagers awash in quart bottles of Old Style and half-pints. (As a freshman, Head told me about the set-up. I didn't believe him. It seemed too impossibly good. But sometimes there is a Santa Claus. In fact, on Thursdays, Head would roam the halls of St. George taking drink orders for the weekend.)

Head reminded me of the time Oakner and I arrived at his house to find bullet holes in the front porch. The police had been there and shot Head's dog after she'd gotten out of the yard and snarled at a passing woman. (These particular Chicago cops were neither subtle nor especially keen marksmen.) Head was broken up. Oakner and I were too, since he couldn't go drinking.

Our late friend Rocco was mentioned often. Rocco's basement was the first we ever saw with surround-sound stereo speakers, rigged up from scratch. (Rocco went on to work as an electrician.) Rocco had a facility for improvisational mayhem and probably would've excelled as a political dirty trickster or internet hacker. One dawn after we had spent the night washing down Dexedrine with Bud tall boys, we were walking along Clark Street when Rocco opened the base of a stop light, hit something inside and left the light stuck on red. I didn't even know you could open stop lights.

We did many dumb, violent, laughable things together. And it doesn't seem that long ago, yet it was. Two generations. In 1969, St. George closed at the end of our sophomore year. We were no longer classmates, scattering to different high schools. I lived in suburban Skokie and ended up at Notre Dame in Niles, even further away from Roger's Park. Into the service and back to town, then out to California; there would always be time to hook up again. Luckily, Oakner realized years were zipping past faster than telephone poles seen from a speeding car. Thanks to the web, we're back in touch, Facebook classmates with no more tests or curfews. We can stay out as late as we want . . . we just don't anymore. 1969: Rocco in the chair. Oakner in center frame and myself to the right.
2009: Head, Steve, Oakner and myself.
(Photos: Oakner)