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.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
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."
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."
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