Last night I was having drinks at Frank 'N Hank, a dive bar in Koreatown. It's a quaint little place, with a nude lady on the wall, a Korean lady bartender who's hard to understand, and all the other dive bar mainstays. It's Friday, and there's about eight people in the place, with me and a friend (who I'll call Alicia) being two of them. Me and Alicia are talking, minding our own business, when an African American man in his fifties sits beside us. He has a scarf covered in peace signs around his neck and a deck of Tarot cards at his side. Gerard (as I'll call him) interrupts us, in a polite manner, and after brief introductions begins to rattle off a spiel about his Oprah appearance and various celebrity clients, including Courtney Love and some guy on "The Unit," which I've never seen before. He claims he's a "reader" and even asks the Korean lady bartender to confirm the fact, which she does. Apparently they're friends, and her name is Snow. He continued his spiel, but I couldn't tell you what he said- all I could think about is the juxtaposition between Oprah and a dive bar called Frank N Hank, and if Snow and Gerard ever fly to Chicago together to visit her.
Gerard then asks Alicia her initials, and she tells him. Without hesitation he says that she's an artist who hates her 9 to 5 job, but does it to pay the bills. He pauses, then says "you need to calm down...you'll be okay." Knowing what I do about Alicia, he was right about the first assertion, although I don't think it was a big leap considering that most people in Los Angeles call themselves an artist of some kind, and an even higher percentage hate their 9 to 5 job. As I have no idea what the second assertion was about, the jury was still out on Gerard the Oprah Psychic. He goes on, telling Alicia things about her mother, which she says are true, but I have no way of knowing for sure. Alicia thinks he's for real. I maintain that he's a fraud.
Then he looks to me- IT'S MY TURN. And I'm ready to prove to Alicia- and all his horse shit celebrity clients- that he's just a smooth talker with a tragically hip scarf. He asks me my intitials, and I tell him. He says that I could never work a 9 to 5 job, like Alicia does; that I have to be my own boss. He pauses, then says "you're fine." I must admit, I was a little impressed. Over a year ago I traded my 9 to 5 job at a four star hotel for one that allowed complete freedom. It was the best decision I've ever made. I quickly realized, though, as he started talking to Snow, that I was more flattered then impressed, simply because he said I was fine, whereas he told Alicia she needed to calm down. I was happy to be perceieved as the one who had it all together. This realization makes me doubt him again. I still maintain he's a fraud.
As if he senses my challenging stare, he turns away from Snow and looks me dead in the eye. Then he hits me with the haymaker--
"You're a black man in a white man's body."
I've always felt most psychics made generalized statements that were typically true for most people. This statement (as well as the small rant afterwards about slavery) was ever so bold, considering I was in no way dressed like an aspiring rapper. Not only was it bold, but it's true (in a way). If you don't believe me, these four reasons will prove it:
1. For the past four months I've been writing a dark drama about a black slave in 1820's Virginia. The reason I chose such subject matter is because I've always been fascinated with slavery and African American culture.
2. My best friends in Virginia are black.
3. I am widely accepted by black strangers, in an odd way. I feel comfortable telling black jokes right in their midst (as if I'm black), and for some reason they never get upset, and in most cases love me for it.
4. I can dance, and have what most basketball players would call "mad hops."
After Gerard's haymaker statement, my challenge had been accepted and met. My mental accusations toward him had been proven wrong- he was truly talented. There was a reason why Courtney Love, the guy from "The Unit," and Oprah all sought his advice. In that moment he could have told me I would die in an hour and I would have believed him. Fortunately his next words had nothing to do with death at all. He simply said, with extreme confidence, "Alicia, your shoe is untied."
I looked down curiously, knowing Gerard couldn't see her shoes at all, as they were hidden under the bar. Time slowed down as I squinted through the darkness, looking for a loose lace, but I found no lace at all...
Alicia was wearing sandals.
1/24/09
1/23/09
Pappaw Land: Synopsis
I mentioned during a previous post that I wrote a script, called "Pappaw Land," that takes place in Wise, Virginia, the small coal mining town where I used to spend summers when I was young. Last May I submitted the script to the Sundance Screenwriters Lab, and it happened to become a Semi-Finalist come July. I figured I'd give you an idea what the script is about, for anyone interested. This synopsis is the same one I sent to Sundance last year--
"The main title, “Pappaw Land,” comes in scrawled across the screen in a child's hand, the heading of a yellowed fourth grade assignment fluttering against the dashboard of Stanley Nichols' car. Fresh out of high school, he drives past the trashcan fires and stray dogs of the fabled land, known by most as Wise, Virginia, as he recounts the idyllic childhood summer he wrote of ten years earlier. Despite it’s painfully polluted landscape, the magic of Wise remains real and intact, when it’s searched for. Stanley's journey is in finding magic that exists in the everyday, love in the dependable, and God in a rustling tree house and the muddy creek.
Stanley grew up in a Virginian suburb, and rather than move to Florida with his retiring parents, he drives to the backcountry to stay indefinitely with his Pappaw. His dying car and his dying dog Hobbes are all he takes along. The story unfolds in quiet scenes that pass like humid summer days—and that reach for the star-filled beauty of warm summer nights. Stanley and his Pappaw are kindred spirits from their first meeting. The old man winks rather than scolds; when something needs to be fixed, they fix it together, their hands blackened with coal and grease. Life only begins to speed up in Wise after Stanley meets a wild brown-haired girl named Emily by the creek, and her BB-gun wielding brother.
A rift forms between Stanley and everything-not-Emily—even his family and faith are forgotten in a hot wave of teen angst. The first act of the film, moving leisurely through his town explorations with Hobbes and his first time at Pappaw’s church, gives way to a fiery second act after his meeting with Emily. The crescendo builds as Stanley ignores his old Pappaw, and then betrays him by stealing his church keys. Stanley sneaks into the church, exploring not just the labyrinthic structure but the nubile body of his brown-haired addiction. The church throughout the script is a present, radiating entity. Like the writer's own faith, it's never obtrusive or somber, but rather, a solid place of warmth and questioning.
Stanley's revelation in the third act occurs not in a sexual, romantic, or even social realm, though these elements are certainly present; he finds a transcendent truth in himself. Cliché, you say, but true nonetheless. Stanley must put a dying Hobbes to sleep in a modern animal hospital, and in this moment we see that the eight-year-old Stanley that first visited his Pappaw in Wise is immortal—that innocence doesn't always have to be lost when you grow up. In the end, a moral—and "Pappaw Land" is what I would call a moral tale—can be found in doing good, in living well, and experiencing what there is in this world to experience, with blackened bare feet."
*I find it impossible to write a synopsis of my own work, so I had the brilliant Mike Turner do it for me.*
"The main title, “Pappaw Land,” comes in scrawled across the screen in a child's hand, the heading of a yellowed fourth grade assignment fluttering against the dashboard of Stanley Nichols' car. Fresh out of high school, he drives past the trashcan fires and stray dogs of the fabled land, known by most as Wise, Virginia, as he recounts the idyllic childhood summer he wrote of ten years earlier. Despite it’s painfully polluted landscape, the magic of Wise remains real and intact, when it’s searched for. Stanley's journey is in finding magic that exists in the everyday, love in the dependable, and God in a rustling tree house and the muddy creek.
Stanley grew up in a Virginian suburb, and rather than move to Florida with his retiring parents, he drives to the backcountry to stay indefinitely with his Pappaw. His dying car and his dying dog Hobbes are all he takes along. The story unfolds in quiet scenes that pass like humid summer days—and that reach for the star-filled beauty of warm summer nights. Stanley and his Pappaw are kindred spirits from their first meeting. The old man winks rather than scolds; when something needs to be fixed, they fix it together, their hands blackened with coal and grease. Life only begins to speed up in Wise after Stanley meets a wild brown-haired girl named Emily by the creek, and her BB-gun wielding brother.
A rift forms between Stanley and everything-not-Emily—even his family and faith are forgotten in a hot wave of teen angst. The first act of the film, moving leisurely through his town explorations with Hobbes and his first time at Pappaw’s church, gives way to a fiery second act after his meeting with Emily. The crescendo builds as Stanley ignores his old Pappaw, and then betrays him by stealing his church keys. Stanley sneaks into the church, exploring not just the labyrinthic structure but the nubile body of his brown-haired addiction. The church throughout the script is a present, radiating entity. Like the writer's own faith, it's never obtrusive or somber, but rather, a solid place of warmth and questioning.
Stanley's revelation in the third act occurs not in a sexual, romantic, or even social realm, though these elements are certainly present; he finds a transcendent truth in himself. Cliché, you say, but true nonetheless. Stanley must put a dying Hobbes to sleep in a modern animal hospital, and in this moment we see that the eight-year-old Stanley that first visited his Pappaw in Wise is immortal—that innocence doesn't always have to be lost when you grow up. In the end, a moral—and "Pappaw Land" is what I would call a moral tale—can be found in doing good, in living well, and experiencing what there is in this world to experience, with blackened bare feet."
*I find it impossible to write a synopsis of my own work, so I had the brilliant Mike Turner do it for me.*
1/22/09
Notes From Girls #1
I like to keep a box of old letters, greeting cards, concert tickets, receipts, and other random memory markers. My most prized possession in this box of junk is a collection of notes from various girls, dating back to high school. Most of them are from the days before texting was mainstream, when handwritten ink on crinkled paper was the best form of flirting if you didn't have the nerves for a face to face talk. I just love handwritten notes, and plan on posting more in the future.
This one is from a girl I'll call Sally. My best friend Randy knew her from one of his classes and suggested I talk to her. It was my junior year of high school about a month before Prom, and I didn't have a date yet, due to the fact that I wanted the best looking girls in school, but never had the balls to talk to them. Randy suggested Sally knowing she was a step down from my usual crush, and might actually be interested. I refused at first, mainly because I was ridiculously picky for a short shy kid (I was 5 foot 5 inches tall until a growth spurt the next year). As another week went by without a date for Prom, I finally gave in and decided to give her a chance, as desperate times call for desperate measures. I made contact via a handwritten note, taking painstaking measures to craft a piece of flawless literature even my joyless English teacher, Mrs. Erskine, would melt over. Although I can't remember what I wrote, I know it was perfect. This is her response:
We didn't go to Prom together.
This one is from a girl I'll call Sally. My best friend Randy knew her from one of his classes and suggested I talk to her. It was my junior year of high school about a month before Prom, and I didn't have a date yet, due to the fact that I wanted the best looking girls in school, but never had the balls to talk to them. Randy suggested Sally knowing she was a step down from my usual crush, and might actually be interested. I refused at first, mainly because I was ridiculously picky for a short shy kid (I was 5 foot 5 inches tall until a growth spurt the next year). As another week went by without a date for Prom, I finally gave in and decided to give her a chance, as desperate times call for desperate measures. I made contact via a handwritten note, taking painstaking measures to craft a piece of flawless literature even my joyless English teacher, Mrs. Erskine, would melt over. Although I can't remember what I wrote, I know it was perfect. This is her response:
We didn't go to Prom together.
1/21/09
Nomad
I grew up in northern Virginia, staying there the first two decades of my life until I was grown and able to leave it behind for California, where I've been for five years now, the first two of which I was content. The past three years I've often dreamed of even farther away places to live, in extreme seclusion. I love much of what the city offers, but many times it has me thinking of living in forests alone, or with a tribe of some sort. I want to feel what it's like to only worry about survival in the most primal form. Over a year ago I did extensive research on living conditions in the rainforests of Costa Rica, hoping to find a way to make the possible move agree with the more reasonable side of my brain. When it didn't, I did research on a more accepted form of banishment, called the Peace Corps. The problem there is, you can't choose your destination, which means I could end up on a cold mountain in Ukraine instead of a warm village in Africa. I like cold, but not frostbite cold. Then I thought about Costa Rica again. It still didn't work out.
Since then my preferred destination has been Wise, Virginia, a small town in the southwest part of the state where I spent summers with my Pappaw when I was young. It's no Costa Rica, and is even considered a dump by some, but it still strikes a nostalgic feeling inside me like no other place. I would never want to live there long term, but I think a year or so would do me good. Not to mention I've written a script about the place, which would give me a real reason to spend time there- to do rewrites. It's this time of year, December and January, that always has me thinking of the past year and the one to come, and when I contemplate the most drastic type of lifestyle changes (like a move to Costa Rica). This winter has been even worse for such day dreams, especially after my once a year trip to Wise over Christmas to visit family. Being there, with the locations for my script right in front of me, had me scheming schemes and dreaming big dreams. I wished it never ended, but it always does. Even if I stayed there for a few months, it would eventually end. The script would eventually be finished, and so would the fantasy.
So now that I'm back in Los Angeles, two thousand miles from Wise, I wonder which road to take. Sometimes I wish to be beaten. I want someone to put me on my death bed. Maybe then what's really important will pop into my head and I'll know- know what to do. I'm so confused right now it's pitiful. I don't know which step to take. I long for people, for a feeling, for love, for a fantasy. I want to feel like I did in Wise over Christmas. It's such a disappointment to know even if I stayed there the feeling wouldn't. It'd leave in a week, I'm sure. That's why my longing is unattainable, because no matter where I am or who I'm with, I will eventually long for something else. So what is life's lesson in this? Do I chase my ever changing longing or do I stay put, waiting out my waves of angst patiently, knowing clarity will come? What if clarity never comes? What if chasing those longings is all we have to look forward to? What if I'm supposed to chase it, use it up, then move on to my next new thing? Am I a nomad or a life long resident? Am I a runaway father or a stay at home mother? Am I using all I have to travel the world, or am I saving to buy a house? Do I live in fantasy or reality?
Since then my preferred destination has been Wise, Virginia, a small town in the southwest part of the state where I spent summers with my Pappaw when I was young. It's no Costa Rica, and is even considered a dump by some, but it still strikes a nostalgic feeling inside me like no other place. I would never want to live there long term, but I think a year or so would do me good. Not to mention I've written a script about the place, which would give me a real reason to spend time there- to do rewrites. It's this time of year, December and January, that always has me thinking of the past year and the one to come, and when I contemplate the most drastic type of lifestyle changes (like a move to Costa Rica). This winter has been even worse for such day dreams, especially after my once a year trip to Wise over Christmas to visit family. Being there, with the locations for my script right in front of me, had me scheming schemes and dreaming big dreams. I wished it never ended, but it always does. Even if I stayed there for a few months, it would eventually end. The script would eventually be finished, and so would the fantasy.
So now that I'm back in Los Angeles, two thousand miles from Wise, I wonder which road to take. Sometimes I wish to be beaten. I want someone to put me on my death bed. Maybe then what's really important will pop into my head and I'll know- know what to do. I'm so confused right now it's pitiful. I don't know which step to take. I long for people, for a feeling, for love, for a fantasy. I want to feel like I did in Wise over Christmas. It's such a disappointment to know even if I stayed there the feeling wouldn't. It'd leave in a week, I'm sure. That's why my longing is unattainable, because no matter where I am or who I'm with, I will eventually long for something else. So what is life's lesson in this? Do I chase my ever changing longing or do I stay put, waiting out my waves of angst patiently, knowing clarity will come? What if clarity never comes? What if chasing those longings is all we have to look forward to? What if I'm supposed to chase it, use it up, then move on to my next new thing? Am I a nomad or a life long resident? Am I a runaway father or a stay at home mother? Am I using all I have to travel the world, or am I saving to buy a house? Do I live in fantasy or reality?
1/20/09
Scribe Asylum Photo Shoot
If you didn't know, for the last couple of years I've been a member of a writer's group called The Scribe Asylum. We've always kept the group fairly private and to ourselves, but lately we've been creating some great material that we'll want to showcase to the public fairly soon. The first step in this is to create a logo of some kind, which prompted us to do a little photo shoot last night. Our goal is to take one of these images (or one of the many others), and work it into the logo. The concept for the shoot was this:
"A writer goes insane from writer's block (or a bad pitch meeting), and scribbles all over himself, covering his face in ink."
I'd love to get some opinions on the pics. Which of the photos below do you think would work best for a logo?
*all photos by Colin Mika*
"A writer goes insane from writer's block (or a bad pitch meeting), and scribbles all over himself, covering his face in ink."
I'd love to get some opinions on the pics. Which of the photos below do you think would work best for a logo?
*all photos by Colin Mika*
1/19/09
Cheetara and Our Baby
I've been having strange dreams lately. My dreams are normally rather childish, like something you'd see in a cartoon from the 80's. Thundercats, GI Joe, stuff like that. Lately they've featured people from my past, and seem to be deeper. I can't help but think what they mean, if anything.
Here's a recent one involving a girl from a couple of years ago that I dated briefly (so brief that the intimacy of the dream is shocking to me). For the sake of anonymity I'll call this girl Cheetara:
I'm in a parking garage, waiting. Suddenly a car pulls up, and it's Cheetara and her current boyfriend. She's pregnant, or atleast I know she is, even if it's unseen, and it's mine. Everyone knows it's mine, and I have some sort of kingship over this newbie because of it. He leaves us to it, because she's about to have the baby, even though she's walking and talking normally like there's no baby at all. We walk outside, along a beach that leads to the hospital. Cheetara is walking on an elevated path or sidewalk above me and beside me, while I'm in the sand. I'm so happy about the baby I can barely stand it, I feel like I'm about to pop myself. "Watch this," I said, as I prance and skip in circles as if I'm airplane, then explode from my knees into the air as if I'm a merman jumping out of the shimmering water, so desperate for her to see my joy. We walk further and eventually I sit her down by the path she was on, just before we reach the hospital. We're eye level now, and I rub her pregnant belly, now large and plainly visible. I can't stop thinking that my baby, our baby, is inside. Not one thought creeps into my head about the other guy, or any of our problems, there's just joy. I look Cheetara in the eye, wanting to tell her how much I love her, but instead say, "I just want to let you know, I love this baby so much." She smiles as if she knows I love her too, but neither of us utters a word about it...
Then I turned into the Cobra commander and ripped my baby from her belly, leaving her for dead as I gazed into my son's newborn eyes. Then I woke up.
Here's a recent one involving a girl from a couple of years ago that I dated briefly (so brief that the intimacy of the dream is shocking to me). For the sake of anonymity I'll call this girl Cheetara:
I'm in a parking garage, waiting. Suddenly a car pulls up, and it's Cheetara and her current boyfriend. She's pregnant, or atleast I know she is, even if it's unseen, and it's mine. Everyone knows it's mine, and I have some sort of kingship over this newbie because of it. He leaves us to it, because she's about to have the baby, even though she's walking and talking normally like there's no baby at all. We walk outside, along a beach that leads to the hospital. Cheetara is walking on an elevated path or sidewalk above me and beside me, while I'm in the sand. I'm so happy about the baby I can barely stand it, I feel like I'm about to pop myself. "Watch this," I said, as I prance and skip in circles as if I'm airplane, then explode from my knees into the air as if I'm a merman jumping out of the shimmering water, so desperate for her to see my joy. We walk further and eventually I sit her down by the path she was on, just before we reach the hospital. We're eye level now, and I rub her pregnant belly, now large and plainly visible. I can't stop thinking that my baby, our baby, is inside. Not one thought creeps into my head about the other guy, or any of our problems, there's just joy. I look Cheetara in the eye, wanting to tell her how much I love her, but instead say, "I just want to let you know, I love this baby so much." She smiles as if she knows I love her too, but neither of us utters a word about it...
Then I turned into the Cobra commander and ripped my baby from her belly, leaving her for dead as I gazed into my son's newborn eyes. Then I woke up.
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