Martini

Here's how to tell you're really drunk. When you appreciate a well made martini, in fact so much so you stake part of your identity on it, perhaps in a misguided attempt to reconnect with the colonialist roots of your hometown, and yet end up making one with lime flavored ice, because that's the first ice you find. Because maybe you won't even notice. It's not about being too drunk to taste the difference. It's about being beyond that drunk, about being so drunk you think, I won't notice the lime. So drunk you figure, I'll be able to put up with it, because I like the rest of the martini and am too tired to go and find good ice. That's probably how my ex-wife felt about me. It's why I keep sending her emails. Except it's the lime I want. I'm trying to ignore the martini.

Christmas Lovin'

Today I had a date with a girl I met on Jdate. Two days before she'd IMed me out of the blue, while I was logged on to the site, and straight up said she thought I was cute, and I asked her out, and that was that. Could it really be this easy? Was this how normal people did it, without the week or two of back and forth emailing, phone calls, plotting, strategizing that I was used to? She looked cute, pretty even, although, and I hate to admit this, I was worried she wasn't smart enough. There were red flags. But who am I to be picky and judge someone by where they went to college, even if it's community college? I have my faults too. No one's perfect. She seemed to know what she wanted: me. And I like a girl who knows what she wants.

Dating on Christmas day is difficult. Most places are closed. At the last minute I found this out and told her to meet me at a Diner by my apartment. We arrived the same time, got out of our cars, and looked at each other. She blinked, looked at me again, almost like she couldn't believe what she was seeing. But not in a good way. Then again maybe she was looking at my car. I've been driving the same POS for the last seven years. It's my good luck charm.

We entered and sat at a table. She looked down, away from me. This girl was hot, and her diamond earrings and furred bitch coat meant she knew it, in addition to providing an unsettling counterpoint to the four TVs playing local news and tarnished milk dispenser at our table. She had those saucer eyes wannabe actresses have, that are a little too big, a little obscene, and leave normals amazed and disheartened at how incredibly good looking some people are.

There's a set level of attractiveness I require in a potential girlfriend. After that, it's just gratuitous. This girl was gratuitous, like an ice cream sundae topped with truffles, gold flakes, and bacon. We ordered our meal. She seemed withdrawn, slow. She'd never heard of "It's a Wonderful Life," had no idea who Jimmy Stewart was, and chewed with her mouth open. Conversation came from her reluctant lips in slow, quiet rivulets. She told me she worked with developmentally disabled eight year-olds. I worried this might be because she wanted to be around people she could relate to.

She ordered a breakfast plate of scrambled eggs and finished a third of it, then sat there, waiting to leave. $23 down the drain. I should've split the bill, but didn't have the balls. As we walked to our cars she forced a smile and said, "that was sort of fun". Then asked me what I was doing later. I said, "can I be honest with you? I can tell you're not into me, but thanks for coming out here anyway." She smiled weakly and nodded just enough for me to know she meant it. Then I said, "but you're super hot, so. . ." and I couldn't think of how to finish it. Or more accurately I really wanted to have sex with her but realized by the end of the sentence it was a lost cause and I was just embarassing myself. We writers think our words, if chosen carefully enough, can make magic happen. It comes from living in fiction, having the power to create our own reality, and sometimes it blinds us to how things really are.

Of course I wasn't the only blind one that day. My profile pictures are pretty accurate. I throw a few bad ones in there just to avoid situations like the one today. And yet, there I was, getting rejected by a girl that had thought I was "cute", before actually seeing me.

From a Pastry

I cranked one out before a script meeting today. Not because I thought it would relax me. Because I couldn't help it. I started thinking about how my ex-wife looked one day when she was naked and crawling over to me in bed. I was on my back and I could see right where the curve of her ass began and the flesh parted. Her face flushed, breasts white and tender, dangling like. . .like breasts, hair stringy with sweat. At that moment she was the most beautiful woman Id ever seen.

There's something about coming straight from a j/o session to a business meeting that makes you feel a peculiar combination of fear and self hate. You wonder, can they tell? Do these executives know the depths of my passion? These normal, family loving people, who probably had girlfriends in high school? Could they even begin to comprehend my shamelessness?

Before I'd even sat down the fun one said,"What's that on your pants?"
"Where?"
"Over there." He pointed. "On your inner thigh."
I looked. There was a shiny, translucent stain, as if a slug had crawled partway down from my crotch and fallen off.
"Oh," I said. "I must've dropped a pastry on my leg."
I ran my finger over the stain and licked it. "Yup".

You see in college Freshman year, I dropped a pastry on my leg in the mess hall and then later in the dorm lounge some girl I"d gone to high school with said it was a cum stain, and everyone believed her. Those people probably still think I'm a pervert.

The weird thing is, everyone at the meeting believed me, even though this time it was a lie. I was asked no further questions about the stain. I guess it doesn't matter at all what you've actually done. The only thing that matters is what you can get people to believe you've done.

There was a big silver plate filled with pastries in the middle of the table. Halfway through the meeting I grabbed one, not thinking.
"I thought you already had a pastry," the fun one said.
"I like pastries," I said. "What are you, the pastry police?"
"If I was I'd arrest you," he said.

After the meeting I told the head of the studio I wouldn't work on the project unless they fired the fun one. Even if you're highly valued, you can only ask them to fire someone once every few years, and only if it's someone they can easily replace. But my 18 years in New Jersey taught me how to spot a bully, and I knew if I hadn't cashed in on some of my hard earned good will that guy might have ended up destroying me.

Kill while you have the power. Attack the cancer before it spreads. Tell everyone it's from a pastry. That's how you make it in Hollywood, kid.

My Ex-Wife

I had lunch with my ex-wife today and then went home and masturbated. She's actually gotten hotter. The last time I saw her, she was wearing a business suit and yelling at me in court. I figured, big loss. But now, I don't know. She must've taken up surfing or something. Or maybe she's buying better clothes, or stopped eating pancakes for dinner. Why does every girl I get involved with get hotter once she leaves me? Maybe I'm only thinking they're hotter. Maybe they're still the same, but they appear hotter to me because I can't have them. No, that's definitely not it. Rachel is definitely hotter now. The bus boys had never looked at her like that when she'd been with me.

Like they hated me, for being with her. Like I was a swamp they had to cross before getting to the mainland. When I was a teenager that might have made me apprehensive and defensive, but now, even though Rachel had trouble swallowing her food because I was across from her and she was only there to try and pitch me her boyfriend's script, I savored the feeling of superiority. The idea that this. . .was mine, even though it hadn't been for a long time. Possibly never really was. It made me feel good about the world.

One thing I've learned from growing up, you've got to force yourself to have a good time. A majority of situations have something redeeming about them. But this is usually mixed in with a lot of lip and anus. The idea is to ignore the lip and anus, and just enjoy the fact that the hot dog you're eating tastes great. Even if you're not really eating a hot dog. Even if you're eating a salad with your ex-wife, who hates you, and you don't know why.

My Indie Script

I went to yet another studio meeting regarding my "Indie Script". If you'd call it a meeting. It was me and some 25-year old VP so new into his promotion he flinched when I asked him to get me a cup of coffee. He told me he was the head of their "Indie" division. I told him said studio doesn't have an indie division. He told me he liked my script. I sighed. His unemotional eyes suggested he was on autopilot and probably trying to remember if he'd had meat with breakfast. Either that, or he was a serial killer.

The problem is when I write a dramady about a young cricket that must learn muay-thai kickboxing so he can rescue his brother from a high school biology classroom before he's fed to a turtle, the head of the studio buys me lunch. But when I write something I really care about, no one cares.

I could tell the meeting was going nowhere and was about to leave when the Head of Development ran into the room. Probably because he'd heard the screams. "You threw your coffee at Jim's face?" he yelled.

"Jim looked tired," I said.

The Head of Development looked at Jim. "Get some sleep," he said. "And when you're done with that, get another job."

There is nothing more exhilarating than seeing a grown man cry, especially if he's 25 and knows he can no longer afford the lease on his 300 series BMW. Especially if he looks like someone that might have made fun of you in high school. Especially if he bumps into a wall on his way out because the coffee you threw in his face has blinded him.

"I want to help people" I said. "My work, my art, it's supposed to help people."

The Head of Development told me my main character wasn't likeable enough. "You can make a cricket pretty damn likeable," he said. "Why don't you write something about an insect or something? Maybe a squirrel?"

"I got rabies from a squirrel when I was five," I said. "20 shots in the stomach. It was in the script."

He looked at me like I'd just peed my pants at little league tryouts. "So the script is about you."

I told him I used some stuff from my life, but it was only loosely based on me, and then I said to a certain extent, all that I write, all that anyone writes is about himself.

He inhaled slowly, leaned in close so I could see the sheen of his tan, and asked me if he could confide in me. "I know this script is about you," he said. "And not about you in some abstract art fag way. Really about you, about you like Patton is about Patton, or The Godfather is about the Mafia. This script captures your essence. You're a good writer, and this script shows you know your subject well. What is in this script gives people insights about you that it's taken me ten years of knowing you to figure out. I've never seen a more thinly veiled, or better constructed autobiograhpy in my entire life." He inhaled dramatically and continued. "The problem is," he said, "you're just not likeable enough."

I flashed back to the time I was five to twenty seven. It cut like a knife. "What", I said. "Was it because I threw coffee at your VP?"

"That and you're just not that, I don't know, fun to be around." He shook his head. "Maybe you should pretend you're a cricket."

My Agent

I stopped by my agent's office today to pitch my newest script idea, but found him in a bad mood and was unable to get him to stop cursing at me until I let him snort some of my vicodin. Apparently he'd asked one of his assistants to sharpen 100 of his pencils and she'd used an electric pencil sharpener instead of one of those tiny plastic hand-helds.

"What difference does it make how she sharpens the damn things," I said. "You don't even use pencils."

He looked at me like I was missing a fairly obvious point and I believed him. He's that good.

I once asked my Agent why he needed two assistants. He said, "They're not assistants, they're interns. And I have two because they're free." He smiled confidentially. "You don't even have to feed them".

I had an intern last year, but one night we slept together and I didn't call her the next day so she quit. She was good with the pencil sharpener though.

The problem with interns is it's hard to respect someone who will work for free. That type of desperation indicates an extreme lack of confidence in one's abilities. And yet, those that truly believe in their abilities are willing to do whatever it takes to make it. Even work for free. This all leaves one not knowing what to think about interns, which is why they're so easy to yell at.

Ideally, you want to hire someone that deserves being tormented, so you don't risk feeling guilty for damaging someone psychologically. For example, if popular girls made fun of you in high school, hire an intern that looks like she might have been popular in high school. If you were beaten up by football players when you were younger, hire someone that looks like he could have played football. Even in a pickup game.

If you're wondering who I am, or who represents me, don't bother. Until that intern I slept with learns how to string together a sentence I plan to remain anonymous. It's better for business. I will say that the last screenplay of mine that was produced made over $150 million at the box office but I'm embarrassed to tell my parents I wrote it. No, it's not Norbit. But you're close.

Bush Admin. Declares War on Trees

Since my professional writing tends to be completely devoid of satire and other things stupid people don't understand, I feel at times compelled to write something which makes me feel intelligent and witty, especially when I read it back to myself. So here is a joke news article I wrote which many people have told me is clever. Only two people have told to me it's funny. I'd rather be funny than clever, because funny is much more lucrative. But I'd rather be clever than nothing. So I guess I should feel okay. Instead I feel like nothing.

Bush Admin. Declares War on Trees
Thu Jan 17, 2008 11:32am EST

WASHINGTON (AP) – Citing concerns over the danger falling trees pose during storms and a list of other security related issues, the Bush Administration has declared war on trees, vowing to eradicate all trees from the country by 2012.

“Trees pose the greatest threat to national security since Al Quaida”, White House press secretary Dana Perino said in a news briefing Tuesday. “We are not going to stand idly by as these silent terrorists destroy our sidewalks, pump dangerous amounts of oxygen into the air, and threaten our very lives.”

Bush plans to unveil a $400 billion emergency defense plan next week aimed at halting the devastation caused by the nation’s trees. He’s called on real estate developers, the logging industry, and Halliburton’s deforestation division for help, explaining it will take the combined might of American industry to make the country safe again.

The Bush Administration has long been anti-tree, maintaining trees hurt the economy by impeding development and refusing to pay taxes. But only recently has Bush proposed taking wide-ranging action, spurred by the recent high winds in California, which caused several large trees to fall on people’s homes, injuring three and killing a 12 year old boy.

“We simply cannot allow this murderous rampage to continue,” Homeland Security Chief Michael Chertoff told reporters Thursday, citing a study funded by the Halliburton Timber Cooperative, which showed trees were responsible for over 73 million deaths in 2006.

“We’ve attempted to negotiate with the trees,” Chertoff said, “but they have so far refused to respond, so set in their mission of hatred they’ve made communication impossible.”

Although opposed by environmentalists, Bush’s initiative has garnered support from many prominent religious leaders. Pat Robertson issued a statement yesterday blaming trees for the murder of Jesus. “Without trees,” he explained, “they wouldn’t have been able to crucify Jesus. Trees killed Jesus.” This has stirred anti-tree sentiment across the Southern United States, leading to an increase in chain saw sales and many failed lynching attempts.

Bush has denied accusations his Crawford, Texas ranch contains nearly 28,000 trees. “I am shocked and disappointed that a few mean spirited people would make such slanderous accusations,” Bush told reporters Tuesday, “especially when I have made it my goal to make America safe from Silent Terror.” Citing national security concerns, the President has banned the press from his ranch, and made possession of photographs of his ranch illegal.

When asked for comment, Chertoff explained, “It will get back to the trees. Then, they’ve won.”

Many Democrats, fearing they’ll be seen as soft on trees, have joined with Republicans in the fight against what many refer to as “the silent terror”.

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