The Pity Pizza Party Committee

It is early in the morning, too soon to be awake and doing such things. I am writing, and I am worrying about, well, writing. Failure seems so possible to me, and the insecurity I feel at this second could very well become damaging. I gained a lot of confidence this Summer in whatever abilities or sensibilities I had in terms of story and dialogue, but it is withering just a little bit. Granted there are incredibly untalented hacks that sell scripts. Somehow “Smiley Face” got made, and somewhere that writer is sniffing cocaine and burning thousands of dollars in real estate purchases. I know what I need to work on, but I’m afraid I won’t get that far. I’m afraid I won’t get better. I’m afraid I’ll be stuck living an existence where I cannot express myself or make money by typing on my computer in my “leisure pants.” A friend of mine, actually two friends of mine, have raging confidence in their writing abilities and futures, and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t envious of them. I don’t want to be jealous, and I don’t want to fail. I also don’t want any pity, unless it’s accompanied by White Russians and snuggling. It's probably pointless to worry right now since I am ridiculously young and though that might be an odd adjective to use, it’s true. I probably should be more concerned with things like school as opposed to my possibly distant future. At least that’s what most everyone else thinks is the right thing to do. Well, I guess this is it for now. Thanks for reading. Hopefully you’re not as sleepless as me.

P.S. I am not depressed or anything like that. Everybody attacks their own esteem on a routine basis and it’s just that time of the season for me. I’m sure this will pass as soon as I get some recognition or praise I feel deserving of and/or the horror film I co-wrote gets DVD distribution. Principal photography is done and the edit is already underway. I expect a cut to be done within a month or two and from there.... we'll see I guess. I think there's a chance it could sell as it looks good and there is totes nudity now. Breasts = big selling points.

Pavement Reunion and Bronzie

This has been a great week for me, and I apologize for the incessant rambling that is about to take place. So, I like this girl a lot, and she seems to like me, and we've been spending almost inordinate amounts of time together considering our schedules, and I am head over heels. Fuckin' happy and excited to see where this goes. People always say it'll happen when you least expect it, and I always thought that was malarkey...until now. On another note, Pavement is reuniting and I am beyond any level excitement over that today. My favorite band getting back together, and I, planning to see them for the first time (Got into them after they broke up) in Central Park. Pre-sale is tomorrow morning and you bet I'll be getting tickets before they sell out. So yeah, have that to look forward to. The short film is also making progress, and today I unexpectedly made a connection with this great band, The Bronzed Chorus. They came in and hung out and did a short interview. I had a wonderful time hanging out with them. They were funny, intelligent, and honest people which is rare in the music industry. The best thing other than meeting them, getting a shirt, and shaking their hands was talking to them about film scores. They have an interest in it, and are inclined to lend me a song or two should I need one. I'll be in contact with them this week to see what can happen with that, but the odds of me getting the rights to one of their songs for a short film seems very likely. And with that, I leave you this: A video of them playing live. Peace out dawgs.

Waxman

Kinda Weird, Badly Written Short Fiction:
I banged this out quickly without any prior thought or consideration (that's what she said).



The arid weather kept his skin in check. The lack of sunlight kept his organs intact. If there was ever a time for the Waxman to venture outside, this was it. He carried flowers, a small fan wrapped around his neck by its cord, and walked stiffly to his destination. You might wonder how a man made of wax could do such a thing, let alone exist, and you wouldn't be wrong in thinking such things. But this story is not about the origin of the Waxman, or about how his sculpted body functioned. This is a story of love and loss, and it will be told here just how it was. Perhaps it was her online quote that forced him to brave the outdoors. "I like rare people." He appreciated her attitude and thought to himself, "I can't think of any other waxmen. I must be rare enough to be worthy of meeting such a nice woman." And so they corresponded, her attraction to him based on his verbal wit, and his on her photo and implied heart. "And now I must win her over." The Waxman searched the internet and watched several hours of local television programming to deduce when would be the best time. On the day in mind came a delivery of flowers. Her address was known to him recently, asked for in order to send her a gift. What she did not know was that he would be delivering it himself. And with the fan dangling from his neck and the flowers tightly wrapped in his wax hands, the Waxman rang her doorbell. He did not blink, for he was without eyelids, and he did not worry, for he was sure this was the right street and she would love him a thousand times for coming to see her in person. No reply. A minute. An hour. The Waxman stood motionless at her front door, the flowers at his side. He stood till the streetlights went out. He stood until the paperboy threw out the news. He stood there until the sun rose. And then she opened the door and his heart melted. Curious why the newspaper was drowning in a pool of wax, flowers, and a fan, she scooped them all up and carried them inside. She cleaned the wax off of the paper and left it on the table. She then placed the flowers in her sink. The fan, plugged in next, and the wax that covered the items? It was made into a candle. The Waxman's heart may have been melted to its bare essence, but his loved burned and burned for years until she died.

What Up World?

So it's been awhile, and though I'm writing now, it will be a brief hello. The stress that was sitting peacefully on my shoulders is starting to slink and slump all over me and really weigh me down. I was asked to do something soon, so I looked ahead at my schedule and then hid under my covers like I was a kid again. If only I could sleep 10 hours a day and have my biggest worry be whether or not to gel my hair on picture day (It's never a good idea to be remembered as a tool). And I am young. I should be carefree and ruining my life right now, but for some reason I cannot. Damn that Mel Gibson "Reading" poster for making me this way. I wonder if they remade the Pagemaster, would they have the Mel Gibson poster fight the Russell Crowe "Reading" poster? Anywho, it's been a rainy day somehow and the unexpected weather has left me tired. I just wanna nap for eternity and be woken up for the important bits. Making progress on this short film, and doing some unrelated writing when I can. After watching some Hal Hartley shorts such as Ambition, and another feature of his, I've decided the man is absolutely crazy, sometimes terrible, but mostly great at what he does. And what he does is something I wouldn't mind doing: Creating surreal worlds grounded in their own unique sense of reality that still manage to strike the viewer's heart. He also makes kickass opening sequences. His timing is amazing, and I may be laughed at for liking him, but I doubt that because nobody (I think) really cares or knows about this forgotten filmmaker. I got a slew of music this week and all of it is pretty dang great. The Stone Roses self-titled album reissue, the new Dodos release, and the Wildbeasts cd are what I've received most recently. I guess now is the time in the post that I mention reality television. Yep. Finale of the Real World: Cancun is tonight and I am excited. Joey returns, people seem happy, and the possibility of a four-some feels completely possible. All in all, a great season. That's all for now.

Slave to the Grind: A Good Title for a Fictional Account of an R Kelly Groupie

So it's a nice Labor Day weekend and....I have very little write about. Talk about, sure. Rage about? Not really. But write? Nope. Not a thing. I guess this is where I go on to mention a few of the recent occurrences in my life without any real tact or form. Had a band practice today and it was pretty darn glorious if occasionally frustrating. I want to play shows very soon, but we're still in the process of integrating our new singer. So that's where my frustrations came from, being unable to show this town what we've got. Started reading PREACHER and holy fuck is it amazing. Finished What is the What? and was moved to some very masculine looking tears. Tonight? I do not know. Podcast? Soon. If you'd like to listen to the first podcast, go here and as always, I am entertained and humbled by the great cynical writing of Jake Tueffel on his blog, the madame arms. Well, that's all I have. I guess something should end this.

eh.