Sunday, October 31, 2010

This Is America

Restoring Sanity

This past weekend, John Stewart held a rally in Washington DC. The point of this gathering was held for a twofold purpose. First, to bring together the dwindling numbers of sane people in this country, along with creating a ton of traffic in the DC area. Being based in LA, I was unable to attend the rally, but I did however, watch it at work. So this election day (Tuesday for the uninformed) please go and vote. I understand you may be frustrated with the system and the people involved, but you should never tire of voicing your own opinion, your own voice. So I leave you today with Jon Stewart's closing remarks from this weekend's rally. Also, FOX news is kinda evil. Actually really evil.

“I can’t control what people think this was. I can only tell you my intentions. This was not a rally to ridicule people of faith or people of activism or to look down our noses at the heartland or passionate argument or to suggest that times are not difficult and that we have nothing to fear. They are and we do. But we live now in hard times, not end times. And we can have animus and not be enemies.

But unfortunately one of our main tools in delineating the two broke. The country’s 24 hour political pundit perpetual panic conflictinator did not cause our problems but its existence makes solving them that much harder. The press can hold its magnifying up to our problems bringing them into focus, illuminating issues heretofore unseen or they can use that magnifying glass to light ants on fire and then perhaps host a week of shows on the sudden, unexpected dangerous flaming ant epidemic.

If we amplify everything we hear nothing. There are terrorists and racists and Stalinists and theocrats but those are titles that must be earned. You must have the resume. Not being able to distinguish between real racists and Tea Partiers or real bigots and Juan Williams and Rick Sanchez is an insult, not only to those people but to the racists themselves who have put in the exhausting effort it takes to hate--just as the inability to distinguish terrorists from Muslims makes us less safe not more. The press is our immune system. If we overreact to everything we actually get sicker--and perhaps eczema.

And yet, with that being said, I feel good—strangely, calmly good. Because the image of Americans that is reflected back to us by our political and media process is false. It is us through a fun house mirror, and not the good kind that makes you look slim in the waist and maybe taller, but the kind where you have a giant forehead and an ass shaped like a month old pumpkin and one eyeball.

So, why would we work together? Why would you reach across the aisle to a pumpkin assed forehead eyeball monster? If the picture of us were true, of course, our inability to solve problems would actually be quite sane and reasonable. Why would you work with Marxists actively subverting our Constitution or racists and homophobes who see no one’s humanity but their own? We hear every damn day about how fragile our country is—on the brink of catastrophe—torn by polarizing hate and how it’s a shame that we can’t work together to get things done, but the truth is we do. We work together to get things done every damn day!

The only place we don’t is here or on cable TV. But Americans don’t live here or on cable TV. Where we live our values and principles form the foundations that sustains us while we get things done, not the barriers that prevent us from getting things done. Most Americans don’t live their lives solely as Democrats, Republicans, liberals or conservatives. Americans live their lives more as people that are just a little bit late for something they have to do—often something that they do not want to do—but they do it--impossible things every day that are only made possible by the little reasonable compromises that we all make.
Look on the screen. This is where we are. This is who we are. (points to the Jumbotron screen which show traffic merging into a tunnel). These cars—that’s a schoolteacher who probably thinks his taxes are too high. He’s going to work. There’s another car-a woman with two small kids who can’t really think about anything else right now. There’s another car, swinging, I don’t even know if you can see it—the lady’s in the NRA and she loves Oprah. There’s another car—an investment banker, gay, also likes Oprah. Another car’s a Latino carpenter. Another car a fundamentalist vacuum salesman. Atheist obstetrician. Mormon Jay-Z fan. But this is us. Every one of the cars that you see is filled with individuals of strong belief and principles they hold dear—often principles and beliefs in direct opposition to their fellow travelers.

And yet these millions of cars must somehow find a way to squeeze one by one into a mile long 30 foot wide tunnel carved underneath a mighty river. Carved, by the way, by people who I’m sure had their differences. And they do it. Concession by conscession. You go. Then I’ll go. You go. Then I’ll go. You go then I’ll go. Oh my God, is that an NRA sticker on your car? Is that an Obama sticker on your car? Well, that’s okay—you go and then I’ll go.

And sure, at some point there will be a selfish jerk who zips up the shoulder and cuts in at the last minute, but that individual is rare and he is scorned and not hired as an analyst.

Because we know instinctively as a people that if we are to get through the darkness and back into the light we have to work together. And the truth is, there will always be darkness. And sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel isn’t the promised land. Sometimes it’s just New Jersey. But we do it anyway, together.

If you want to know why I’m here and want I want from you, I can only assure you this: you have already given it to me. Your presence was what I wanted.

Sanity will always be and has always been in the eye of the beholder. To see you here today and the kind of people that you are has restored mine.

Thank you."

Monday, October 25, 2010

Bean, Cheese, and Unborn Child?

My Life is a Phase

On one special Sunday night in the 4th grade, you went over to your next door neighbors house to watch ET. OK, my memory might be failing me, but it definitely was a Spielberg movie, probably, maybe. Well, after the film had concluded, the cute little girl next door told you that she wanted to be a film maker. You didn't really know why at the time, but your 11 year old self proceeded to take up her cause as your own.

In high school she got popular and you, not so much. You had became a true Renaissance man, well versed in the intricacies of Dungeons and Dragons, and a viewer of all things Joss Whedon. Hailing from a certain west coast city, she dated various members of the lacrosse team, while you were frequently asked if you lived with your life partner in the Castro. She went to prom with a bro. You took a friend of a friend.

Many people went through the film stage. Hell, most people are still going through the film stage. A myriad number of people approach you on a daily basis telling you they have an idea for a film. Yet, what they don't realize is while they have one, you have an infinite, and there are not enough hours in your life to get them all down onto paper. Creativity may be dead in Hollywood, but not in your mind. Oh, no.

You started college, and ignoring the desperate pleas of your parents to major in something practical like business, you went to film school and majored in screen writing. For the first time in your life, you enjoyed something intellectual which wasn't associated with This American Life. Also, you got layed due to your vast knowledge of the Klingon language. That was pretty cool.

Graduation day has finally arrived. Your family, your friends, all here to wave you on, cheer you into the next stage of your life. Yet, to somehow validate your four years at an expensive liberal arts college, you need to find a job and quickly. Preferably somehow related to your major. You can't do this.

Now four years in and fully committed to the graduate school path, you are slowly coming to the sad conclusion that having a doctoral degree in film is about as helpful as burning $50,000. Now facing your impending graduation (for a second time), you quickly come to the stark realization that you need to find a job in an industry which is notoriously difficult to break into. Perspective job opportunities slowly broke down into.

1. Teachers assistant for some kids vaguely interested in film at Santa Monica City College.
2. Junior marketing associate at some office building (a writer of short sentences)
3. High school English teacher.
4. Night manager at an auto repair show (your friend's dad owns the place)
5. Gardener
6. Pool Cleaner
7. Part time model / part time gigolo
8. "That guy" that still hangs around his high school talking about the big game, and is eventually hired as a PE teacher. Only later to be fired for touching some kids. Allegedly.
9. Your dad's assistant / office whipping boy.
10. Starving screenwriter waiting to change the world.

Having come to terms with being forced out of parentally funded academia, you realize you were born into a world were there are only about 15 writers for each show, and out of those shows, only five are currently hiring. Three out of those five will get cancelled in their first season. You graduated film school with 34 other screenwriters, many far more talented than yourself. For the first time in your life you realize you are indeed doomed. You also just turned 25. Happy birthday.

So you embrace the unmitigated disaster that is your life, quit your day job, and become a full time screenwriter. You share a small loft with another struggling screenwriter, his brother, and two midgets who were extras in Leprechaun 2. You envy their success. After months of searching for work and your asshole agent not returning your calls, your friend at Universal phones you about a potential job offer. You venture over to the studio, hoping for the best, failing at convincing yourself of the worst. Walking into the meeting the suits are very brief, they probably have an important lunch with someone who's name stars with B and ends with rad Pitt. The executives say they love the writing on your website, they use phrases like "very interesting", "creative", and "brilliantly adequate." Not the words you would use, but whatever, you'll take it. You also don't have a website; details. The studio executives want you to write a romantic comedy about two dolphins who meet at Sea World, fall in love, but then due to dastardly environmentalists are released into two separate oceans, the Pacific and Lake Michigan. The film would then chronicle their journey back to one another, so the dolphins could inevitably live happily ever after. Without thinking, you sign some papers, shake hands, and call your parents, hoping to validate your very existence.

Well, the movie doesn't go well. Your nerd sensibilities get the better of you and by page 5, one of the dolphins is a vampire, the other a transformer. Also, due to Google Earth telling you the plot was impossible, you move the second ocean from Lake Michigan to The Red Sea. Far more plausible, it even has sea in the title.

Inevitably the studio executives didn't like the liberties you took with their concept. It wasn't that they minded the vampire dolphin or the licensing fees inevitably associated with featuring a transformer dolphin. No, they cared about changing the second ocean to The Red Sea, solely because it was impossible to recreate the Middle East in Canada. Dam tax breaks.

So you find yourself without a job, essentially blacklisted from Hollywood studios. Also, your bike got stolen. Bad week.

It turns out that the girl who you stole this dream from gave up on her film dreams a long time ago and went to medical school. She became a doctor and spent two years after college traveling around Africa during villages of AIDS. Did you hear that? She was helping to cure AIDS, what were you doing? Oh, that's right, writing sad poetry and listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. I almost forgot.

Well, when that same girl returned to that States, she got some investors together, and founded a company that takes the seamen of sea slugs, magically alters the fluid, and then sells it to women as an age reversal cream. An age reversal cream. Genius. This company then needed a talented writer to head their new add campaign. You were up for the job, but you were a little too "indie" for the Board Of Directors, so they chose to hire the guy that wore a suit to the interview. After they went public, that same douche bag went to a fancy Hollywood party, met Stephen Spielberg, and became his personal part time model / part time gigolo.

Apparently they make great tips.

So, needing to pay rent, you took a job at the local elementary school, trying to teach snotty noised kids about subject and predicate while they ramble off Halo strategies. During your lunch break your parents call, asking how the job search is going. You lie, say your writing for the latest Orson Wells show, and it's on Fridays at 11. This serves a twofold purpose, your parents may Google Orson Wells, see critical acclaim and never realize he has been dead for 25 years. Second, despite their best attempts at lying, your parents bedtime is 9:30, they will never watch your fictitious programing. So you go home at night, defeated, depressed, and write. You write about the tragedy of the world, how it is unfair, and how your great genius will never be fully appreciated.

One day you go on a hike to the Hollywood sign. You climb the giant H, douse yourself in gasoline, light a match, and jump off. Silently burning beneath your very dream.

The Beauty Of My Soul is Too Much For This Mortal Realm

Dear Cruel World,

I hope you are happy with yourself. Really, I hope you are. I was living my life perfectly, in pure harmonious content, until 2006. During that dastardly year of our lord, you released upon the world a great plague, an unmitigated curse, Zak Efron. Having Mr. Efron be a household named soon took a tole on my persona; solely because I bear a striking resemblance to the High School Musical star.

So at the tender age of 15, I was cursed. Women would just throw themselves at me, and despite my best intentions, it was seemingly impossible to keep them at bay. Throughout my myriad of relationships, I believed that these girls had my best intentions at heart, but I was foolhardy. In reality, these women were using me, abusing my body for their own gains on the social ladder. I always held their best interests first and foremost, but they kicked my heart's ass. I was a broken man. Also I turned 16. My parent's threw me a raging house party at the yacht club.

When I was old enough to have the beard of a man, I embarked on a odyssey around the globe. Yet, my shackle to Mr. Efron was firmly latched to my soul, never relenting, even at the far corners of the earth. In Japan, the ripples in the famed koi fish bonds echoed one name "Zak Efron." The ghosts of the Roman Coliseum whispered in my ear "Zak Efron." In France, the people whispered to be in their glorious Germanic dialect "...Zak Efron..." I could not escape, I could not escape. I constantly felt unimportant as his existence overshadowed mine. People would meet me, see me, and instantly conjure fake expectations. Instantaneously relegating me to the shadowy abyss sometimes referred to as The Disney Channel.

My sister, having just turned 13 was having panic attacks, she was entering adolescence. No, she was not having panic attacks due to adolescence, but merely because she didn't like to travel. Making here a terrible traveling companion.

Returning stateside, I tried to distance myself from the Efron zeitgeist by becoming the one thing Zak could never be; a hipster. I bought skinny jeans, ray bands, and spent entire afternoons album hunting at Amoeba. I also went camera shopping and finally decided on one that didn't take pictures anymore. Apparently that's in right now. Yet, this purchase soon ran into the inevitable issue of be not being able to post my new found indie cred on facebook, obviously due to my lack of a functioning camera. So, I did what any good Orange County boy would do. I hired a professional photographer, had him take photos of me holding a camera wrong, and then had him apply tacky looking, but indie, photoshop filters to all of the prints. Then I bought a Sigur Ros t-shirt. There from Norway, right?

Yet, even this strategy proved unsuccessful as Zak Efron inevitably bough a flannel. It was a sad day.

So now, I sit there with a glass of whisky in my hand, and a gun to my head. Goodbye cruel world, you were never going to accept my beauty. Never.

Goodbye,
(Douchebag in my roommates English class)

PS: Don't take this personally Zak, I was just feeling hard done to that you were getting all the recognition, when I am clearly the better looking of the two of us. Also, you look like me, not the other way round. Try living with that every day of your life. It's fucking difficult.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Shock Of Nonexistence

Last night I experienced a shock of nonexistence. You know, that frightful feeling one has when they realize that they will inevitably die. Today, in hopes of analysing this seemingly rational fear of one's own end, I decided to write a blog post about it. Yet, I inevitably failed miserably. I might try again in the near future, but I don't know yet, maybe my heart just isn't in it right now. Yet, through my failure I discovered this beautiful poem by Philip Larkin. In his piece, Aubade, Larkin says everything I wanted to and more. Reading this work, I realized that my feeble attempts at tackling this subject matter came no where near his beautiful, raw, and informative poem. I can only hope to one day write something this touching. Call it being humbled as a writer.


Aubade - Philip Larkin
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night.
Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare.
In time the curtain-edges will grow light.
Till then I see what's really always there:
Unresting death, a whole day nearer now,
Making all thought impossible but how
And where and when I shall myself die.
Arid interrogation: yet the dread
Of dying, and being dead,
Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse
- The good not done, the love not given, time
Torn off unused - nor wretchedly because
An only life can take so long to climb
Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never;
But at the total emptiness for ever,
The sure extinction that we travel to
And shall be lost in always. Not to be here,
Not to be anywhere,
And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.

This is a special way of being afraid
No trick dispels. Religion used to try,
That vast, moth-eaten musical brocade
Created to pretend we never die,
And specious stuff that says No rational being
Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing
That this is what we fear - no sight, no sound,
No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with,
Nothing to love or link with,
The anasthetic from which none come round.

And so it stays just on the edge of vision,
A small, unfocused blur, a standing chill
That slows each impulse down to indecision.
Most things may never happen: this one will,
And realisation of it rages out
In furnace-fear when we are caught without
People or drink. Courage is no good:
It means not scaring others. Being brave
Lets no one off the grave.
Death is no different whined at than withstood.

Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape.
It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know,
Have always known, know that we can't escape,
Yet can't accept. One side will have to go.
Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring
In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring
Intricate rented world begins to rouse.
The sky is white as clay, with no sun.
Work has to be done.
Postmen like doctors go from house to house.

Monday, October 18, 2010

Home



This past weekend I went home for the first time in 8 weeks. It was a strange experience to say the least. It was nice, but odd.

Conversations Of A Monday

In 8am class

Student 1: Monday joke, probably relating in some way shape or form to Office Space.

Student 2: Laugh

Student 1: Weekend?

Student 2: Weekend.

Student 1: Philosophy joke.

Student: It's too early for this shit.


Buying Lunch

Customer: Buying lunch.

Server: Silence.

Customer: Asks about server's day.

Server: Silence.

Customer: Tells the server to have nice day.

Server: Silence.

Customer: Leaves

Customer 2: Has a long conversation with the server about their respective weekend activities, the weather, and the meaning of life.


Talking To Roommate

Person: Asks how day was.

Roommate: Grunts.

Person: Asks roommate to turn down bad music and to clean up his shit. Also to put on a shirt.

Roommate: Inaudible grunt.

Person: Grabs bag and leaves for the library. To try and do homework, but in reality to flirt with cute girls.

Roommate: Eats food that is not his own.


Going To Sleep

Person: Internal monologue about how tomorrow will be better.

Internal Self: Tomorrow will not be better.

Person: Curses internal self. Also goes takes a piss.

Internal Self: Realizes a paper person forgot about is due tomorrow.

Person: Ignores wisdom of internal self. Goes to sleep. Curses world.

The Road

Gravel, Assault, Pavement,
Whatever you call it,
it helps you move,
helps you live.

You go on a trip,
just drive,
travel to a far away land.
What are you looking for,
perspective, worldly insight, answers to your problems?
Or purely humorous anecdotes?
Those are cool too.

So you travel.
You meet people,
some are interesting, funny, nice.
Some are not.

You spend hours at highway rest stops,
waiting for that conversation to make all your toils worthwhile.
But, that person, that story, that communication...it never comes.

So you get back in your car and drive.
Back to your life,
and to the people that love you.

The Latest Trend?

Mad Men Finale

Kevin is an interesting fellow. Below he rants about fictional people who are both racist and sexist. If they weren't fictional most of them would be dead today. Enjoy.

The following post will have spoilers of the final episode of this season of Mad Men. You have been warned. Though, really, if you're reading this, you should have watched it yet. It was so good.

Three years ago, the Mad Men finale involved a heartfelt monologue from Don Draper about family and how the Carousel projector from Kodak incorporated the idea of family. Most of the major action ("Mr. Campbell, who cares?") had taken place the previous episode, but it was a great episode emphasizing the family structure and set up the total tonal shift of the show to a focus on the women in season two.

The next year, the finale, set against the Cuban Missile Crisis, had an understandable air of chaos, but still made time for Don begging to get Betty back, Betty finding out she's pregnant and hooking up with a stranger in a bathroom, and Peggy delivering her legendary monologue to Pete about having his child. Lots of drama, not so much sentimentality.

Last year, Mad Men ended with its one and only purely fun hour, which felt like a reward to each and every one of it's fans. Great music, great character interactions, a great idea, great lines... One of the best episodes ever produced by this show. It left you wanting to see the next episode as soon as possible.

Last night, Mad Men took one of its characters to a place he should never have been, yet it made the ultimate sense that he was there. Don Draper became Roger Sterling last night. He officially became passé, ridiculous, an object of mockery from the women in the office. He made an impulsive and stupid decision with one woman, completely screwed over another, and made peace with the one who's been in his life all along.

I don't want to break down every element of the episode, but just for highlights:

-- Betty firing Carla was heartbreaking. Even though I've been a defender of Betty's despite her behavior this season, that was too much to handle. It was heinous. Don's anger was wholly and completely justified.

-- However, we then see Betty in a completely different light by episode's end. You see exactly how in love she is with Don and how not in love she is with Henry. You see how childish she still is. You see her rocking that incredibly fierce purple jacket. (Only I would notice that.) And you truly pity her because at the end of the day, she's not really at fault for how her life turned out. She's been screwed over by men (her father, Don, Henry) at every turn.

-- Don's been spiraling out of control all season, headed towards...something, but we could never figure out what. And then he impulsively proposed to his secretary (!) and screwed over a woman he's in an incredibly stable relationship with. In other words, he became Roger Sterling. And no one likes Roger Sterling anymore, so what's to be said for that?

-- GO PEGGY! What an amazing season for our girl. She got all her problems aired out in The Suitcase, got the recognition she needed, and proceeded to kick ass the rest of the season. Landing that account was a work of genius that proves that if Don is now the Roger Sterling, Peggy is the Don Draper. It felt so good to cheer for her, too.

-- The scene in the office with Joan and Peggy was honestly one of the best scenes in the show's history. From the first line ("What could possibly be on your mind?") to the shared laughter at the end was just beautifully acted, written, and one of the most empathetic scenes we've ever seen. But something to note: even when they're sympathizing with each other, Peggy still does not congratulate Joan on her new position. They may be closer than ever, but Peggy still sees herself as above Joan.

-- Dr. Faye Miller may be one of the best people to ever walk through the Mad Men world...so, naturally, she'd get treated like utter crap. That phone call was heartwrenching to watch, because honestly, she did absolutely nothing wrong. She was exactly the right woman...and Don would never be with her. How incredibly sad.

-- Roger's reaction to the news of Don's engagement is fascinating. He went from "Who the hell is that?" to "Congratulations!" so quickly, and I wondered why. Then I realized: he saw Don's engagement as a validation of what he did with Jane three years ago. He wanted to be proven right after all this time.

-- I wouldn't be surprised if we have a bigger time leap next year. The one thing Mad Men has never done with a major character is show their wedding. I don't see how this would be any different. We'll see them again either when Don and Megan are married or when their engagement is over. No other option.

That's a lot more analysis than I planned on writing, but I hadn't quite realized how much there was to ponder. Now I'm wondering about you guys' feelings. What did you think of the episode? Where do you think we're headed next year? Is next year the show's last? (My opinion: yes, sadly.) Take it all to the comments!

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

A Burrito?

I'm Too Beautiful For This Mortal Existence

Dear Cruel World,

I hope you are happy with yourself. Really, I hope you are. I was living my life perfectly, in pure harmonious content, until 2006. During that dastardly year of our lord, you released upon the world a great plague, an unmitigated curse, Zak Efron. Having Mr. Efron be a household named soon took a tole on my persona; solely because I bear a striking resemblance to the High School Musical star.

So at the tender age of 15, I was cursed. Women would just throw themselves at me, and despite my best intentions, it was seemingly impossible to keep them at bay. Throughout my myriad of relationships, I believed that these girls had my best intentions at heart, but I was foolhardy. In reality, these women were using me, abusing my body for their own gains on the social ladder. I always held their best interests first and foremost, but they kicked my heart's ass. I was a broken man. Also I turned 16. My parent's threw me a raging house party at the yacht club.

When I was old enough to have the beard of a man, I embarked on a odyssey around the globe. Yet, my shackle to Mr. Efron was firmly latched to my soul, never relenting, even at the far corners of the earth. In Japan, the ripples in the famed koi fish bonds echoed one name "Zak Efron." The ghosts of the Roman Coliseum whispered in my ear "Zak Efron." In France, the people whispered to be in their glorious Germanic dialect "...Zak Efron..." I could not escape, I could not escape. I constantly felt unimportant as his existence overshadowed mine. People would meet me, see me, and instantly conjure fake expectations. Instantaneously relegating me to the shadowy abyss sometimes referred to as The Disney Channel.

My sister, having just turned 13 was having panic attacks, she was entering adolescence. No, she was not having panic attacks due to adolescence, but merely because she didn't like to travel. Making here a terrible traveling companion.

Returning stateside, I tried to distance myself from the Efron zeitgeist by becoming the one thing Zak could never be; a hipster. I bought skinny jeans, ray bands, and spent entire afternoons album hunting at Amoeba. I also went camera shopping and finally decided on one that didn't take pictures anymore. Apparently that's in right now. Yet, this purchase soon ran into the inevitable issue of be not being able to post my new found indie cred on facebook, obviously due to my lack of a functioning camera. So, I did what any good Orange County boy would do. I hired a professional photographer, had him take photos of me holding a camera wrong, and then had him apply tacky looking, but indie, photoshop filters to all of the prints. Then I bought a Sigur Ros t-shirt. There from Norway, right?

Yet, even this strategy proved unsuccessful as Zak Efron inevitably bough a flannel. It was a sad day.

So now, I sit there with a glass of whisky in my hand, and a gun to my head. Goodbye cruel world, you were never going to accept my beauty. Never.

Goodbye,
(Douchebag in my roommates English class)

PS: Don't take this personally Zak, I was just feeling hard done to that you were getting all the recognition, when I am clearly the better looking of the two of us. Also, you look like me, not the other way round. Try living with that every day of your life. It's fucking difficult.

Monday, October 11, 2010

You Are No Spielberg

On one special Sunday night in the 4th grade, you went over to your next door neighbors house to watch ET. OK, my memory might be failing me, but it definitely was a Spielberg movie, probably, maybe. Well, after the film had concluded, the cute little girl next door told you that she wanted to be a film maker. You didn't really know why at the time, but your 11 year old self proceeded to take up her cause as your own.

In high school she got popular and you, not so much. You had became a true Renaissance man, well versed in the intricacies of Dungeons and Dragons, and a viewer of all things Joss Whedon. Hailing from a certain west coast city, she dated various members of the lacrosse team, while you were frequently asked if you lived with your life partner in the Castro. She went to prom with a bro. You took a friend of a friend.

Many people went through the film stage. Hell, most people are still going through the film stage. A myriad number of people approach you on a daily basis telling you they have an idea for a film. Yet, what they don't realize is while they have one, you have an infinite, and there are not enough hours in your life to get them all down onto paper. Creativity may be dead in Hollywood, but not in your mind. Oh, no.

You started college, and ignoring the desperate pleas of your parents to major in something practical like business, you went to film school and majored in screen writing. For the first time in your life, you enjoyed something intellectual which wasn't associated with This American Life. Also, you got layed due to your vast knowledge of the Klingon language. That was pretty cool.

Graduation day has finally arrived. Your family, your friends, all here to wave you on, cheer you into the next stage of your life. Yet, to somehow validate your four years at an expensive liberal arts college, you need to find a job and quickly. Preferably somehow related to your major. You can't do this.

Now four years in and fully committed to the graduate school path, you are slowly coming to the sad conclusion that having a doctoral degree in film is about as helpful as burning $50,000. Now facing your impending graduation (for a second time), you quickly come to the stark realization that you need to find a job in an industry which is notoriously difficult to break into. Perspective job opportunities slowly broke down into.

1. Teachers assistant for some kids vaguely interested in film at Santa Monica City College.
2. Junior marketing associate at some office building (a writer of short sentences)
3. High school English teacher.
4. Night manager at an auto repair show (your friend's dad owns the place)
5. Gardener
6. Pool Cleaner
7. Part time model / part time gigolo
8. "That guy" that still hangs around his high school talking about the big game, and is eventually hired as a PE teacher. Only later to be fired for touching some kids. Allegedly.
9. Your dad's assistant / office whipping boy.
10. Starving screenwriter waiting to change the world.

Having come to terms with being forced out of parentally funded academia, you realize you were born into a world were there are only about 15 writers for each show, and out of those shows, only five are currently hiring. Three out of those five will get cancelled in their first season. You graduated film school with 34 other screenwriters, many far more talented than yourself. For the first time in your life you realize you are indeed doomed. You also just turned 25. Happy birthday.

So you embrace the unmitigated disaster that is your life, quit your day job, and become a full time screenwriter. You share a small loft with another struggling screenwriter, his brother, and two midgets who were extras in Leprechaun 2. You envy their success. After months of searching for work and your asshole agent not returning your calls, your friend at Universal phones you about a potential job offer. You venture over to the studio, hoping for the best, failing at convincing yourself of the worst. Walking into the meeting the suits are very brief, they probably have an important lunch with someone who's name stars with B and ends with rad Pitt. The executives say they love the writing on your website, they use phrases like "very interesting", "creative", and "brilliantly adequate." Not the words you would use, but whatever, you'll take it. You also don't have a website; details. The studio executives want you to write a romantic comedy about two dolphins who meet at Sea World, fall in love, but then due to dastardly environmentalists are released into two separate oceans, the Pacific and Lake Michigan. The film would then chronicle their journey back to one another, so the dolphins could inevitably live happily ever after. Without thinking, you sign some papers, shake hands, and call your parents, hoping to validate your very existence.

Well, the movie doesn't go well. Your nerd sensibilities get the better of you and by page 5, one of the dolphins is a vampire, the other a transformer. Also, due to Google Earth telling you the plot was impossible, you move the second ocean from Lake Michigan to The Red Sea. Far more plausible, it even has sea in the title.

Inevitably the studio executives didn't like the liberties you took with their concept. It wasn't that they minded the vampire dolphin or the licensing fees inevitably associated with featuring a transformer dolphin. No, they cared about changing the second ocean to The Red Sea, solely because it was impossible to recreate the Middle East in Canada. Dam tax breaks.

So you find yourself without a job, essentially blacklisted from Hollywood studios. Also, your bike got stolen. Bad week.

It turns out that the girl who you stole this dream from gave up on her film dreams a long time ago and went to medical school. She became a doctor and spent two years after college traveling around Africa during villages of AIDS. Did you hear that? She was helping to cure AIDS, what were you doing? Oh, that's right, writing sad poetry and listening to Neutral Milk Hotel. I almost forgot.

Well, when that same girl returned to that States, she got some investors together, and founded a company that takes the seamen of sea slugs, magically alters the fluid, and then sells it to women as an age reversal cream. An age reversal cream. Genius. This company then needed a talented writer to head their new add campaign. You were up for the job, but you were a little too "indie" for the Board Of Directors, so they chose to hire the guy that wore a suit to the interview. After they went public, that same douche bag went to a fancy Hollywood party, met Stephen Spielberg, and became his personal part time model / part time gigolo.

Apparently they make great tips.

So, needing to pay rent, you took a job at the local elementary school, trying to teach snotty noised kids about subject and predicate while they ramble off Halo strategies. During your lunch break your parents call, asking how the job search is going. You lie, say your writing for the latest Orson Wells show, and it's on Fridays at 11. This serves a twofold purpose, your parents may Google Orson Wells, see critical acclaim and never realize he has been dead for 25 years. Second, despite their best attempts at lying, your parents bedtime is 9:30, they will never watch your fictitious programing. So you go home at night, defeated, depressed, and write. You write about the tragedy of the world, how it is unfair, and how your great genius will never be fully appreciated.

One day you go on a hike to the Hollywood sign. You climb the giant H, douse yourself in gasoline, light a match, and jump off. Silently burning beneath your very dream.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

Who Has Candles?

Today is the lead singer of Radiohead, Thom Yorke's birthday. Happy birthday Thom. Thank you for all the music you have given the world over the years, it means more to people than you may even realize.




Can we please have the new album soon? Much love.

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Paradox?

All About The Social Network

This piece is by Kevin. He is a contributor to this blog and an all round interesting fellow.



The last time I posted my State of the Cinema report, things looked grim. There were barely any awards-worthy movies released in the first seven months of the year as we headed into August. And now? Well, things are absolutely no different.

That's harsh, actually. There have been a couple of great movies that will never be nominated for Oscars: Easy A and Catfish, and there's been exactly one stellar, Oscar-worthy movie released in the past two months: The Social Network, Aaron Sorkin's masterpiece about Facebook. It's an early frontrunner for Best Picture, and one that conforms nicely to the mold set forward by other best pictures in recent years (Slumdog Millionaire and The Hurt Locker in particular shattered the expectation of a Best Picture).


I fully expect The Social Network to win Best Picture. I really do. I know there are other movies coming out this year that have a chance, The King's Speech, 127 Hours and The Fighter in particular. But this movie is such a home run that it seems difficult to consider any other possible outcome.

Sorkin's script is superb. Jesse Eisenberg's interpretation of Facebook founder Mark Zuckerberg is extremely unlikable yet completely lovable, a wonderful contradiction. Andrew Garfield steals the show as wounded friend and co-founder Eduardo Saverin. He's emotionally complex and makes the entire audience ache for his struggle. The entire cast is brilliant (though I'm not quite as in love with Justin Timberlake's performance as Napster founder Sean Parker as others seem to be), and the direction is better than capable, too. David Fincher edited himself for this film, and it's a marked improvement after his last effort, the sluggish The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. It is truly the best film I've seen all year.

I see Best Picture, Best Supporting Actor, and Best Adapted (Original? it's unclear) Screenplay wins for the film, with Fincher losing out to Inception's Christopher Nolan for Best Director. Eisenberg will likely be nominated for Best Actor, as well, but Colin Firth is probably a dead lock for The King's Speech at this point. His goodwill from last year's A Single Man will continue to steamroll to the Oscar podium this year.

If Best Original Screenplay doesn't include Network, then Inception is probably locked for that Oscar as well. In the female acting categories, Best Actress probably belongs to Black Swan's Natalie Portman, and Best Supporting Actress...is a gigantic question mark. No idea where that one is going. But hey, I've got solid ideas for seven out of the eight big categories! That's not bad! Then again, maybe the paucity of good films to make this more difficult is what is really bad.

At any rate, for The Social Network, I give it a straight-up A

Saturday, October 2, 2010

One More Thing



Many thanks to Michael Cera for signing my copy of Scott Pilgrim last night. That, and calling my friend an asshole for missing the screening last night for a wedding. You are a pretty awesome person.

Scott Pilgrim vs. The Fans

Thanks you so much to everyone that came out to the New Beverly last night for the screening of Scott Pilgrim. As a fan, it was amazing to see so many cast members there. We love you guys. As I said on the way home, it was the best night of my life that cost under $10 and didn't involve sex.


Hunting Yeti contributor Kevin with Brie Larson





The cast!


Thank you all for making this movie. Truly.