Friday, July 29, 2011

Scratch my back?

A hundred years ago, way back in about 2000, if a blogger posted a link to your blog (irregardless of what it was) you reciprocated. It was the polite thing to do. Remember polite?

Alas, those days and the concurrent politeness are gone. I've had two blogs/websites listed to the right for a while and both bloggers/webmasters recently deleted some comments I made on their blogs.

You're probably jumping to conclusions thinking, what crazy shit did I say on their blogs? On one blog, I said 'Ditto, I agree with the above commenter'. And the website owner deleted my comment. Nothing risque, no profanity. The comment I was agreeing with was equally vanilla except the commenter was questioning the blogger's whole reason for having the website (it has gotten whiny and super redundant). You're a writer, you're frustrated, you've been rejected by oodles of literary journals. Okayyy ... not sure how you milked that one for over a year.

I could write a fucking novel on the freaky crap that happened to me (and my scripts) when I tried to break into the rigged spec screenplay market back in 1997-2000. I burned entire weekends and hundreds of dollars on the Hollywood Creative Directory, SASEs and query letters that I mailed fifty at a time.

I blew money I didn't have on entry fees to The Austin Heart of Film, Slamdance, Maui Writer's Conference, etc. To what end? I got part of one one script pirated by an A-list star. Though it probably wasn't him personally. More likely it was his assistant's assistant or maybe the AD's assistant who eventually ended up making a film that was somewhat like my script minus the suspense but close enough that they used the same name for a key character. And this was no Jane Jones or John Smith, it was an uncommon name with a specific spelling.

But who cares, that was a hundred years ago. So for the sake of looking forward, I've deleted that particular blog amongst the links at right. I've got better things to do than use this blog to feed the hit counts on a mediocre site that seems to be focused on looking backward at past literary failures, something any professional writer wouldn't have time to do.

Wednesday, July 27, 2011


Eddie is a schleppy, hipster writer who is unemployed (is there any other kind?) and an eternal under achiever. One day he bumps into his ex's brother who gives him a little pill that looks a lot like either A) piece of dried Super Glue (ooh, don't put that in your mouth!) or B) some suspicious new type of nicotine gum.

Ever the game idiot, Eddie takes the pill and slightly dizzying CGI kicks in while he fucks his landlord's girlfriend. She agrees to do him after he miraculously tells her how to write her law school term paper, or whatever. Later that evening Eddie cleans his apartment (nothing smoking pot can't induce!!!) for the first time ever and then sits down and cranks out his soon-to-be-best-selling novel in one fell swoop.

Eddie goes gambling and wins big and then goes to the creepiest casino on earth, the stock market, and starts winning even bigger. The New York Post interviews him. Um, I thought the goal of every New Yorker was to stay out of that rag? The only people that end up on the cover of it are celebrities that have fallen off the wagon and murder suspects.

Eddie goes on a tropical vacation, screws a lot of nameless, faceless women, drives a rented sports car real fast (terrifying and enraging the locals) and then jumps off a cliff into the ocean ... because he's now totally cool.

In the voice over, Eddie describes this wonder drug as having eliminated his awkwardness, his shyness and his ignorance -- essentially everything that makes him human. Apparently this pretend drug (NZT) is like cocaine with a crystal meth chaser and an extra dollop of arrogance.

Eventually Eddie goes where all the morally deficient "winners" go, to the stock market to make millions and get into some vague argument with Robert DeNiro's minor character about "not having paid his dues" (does this mean real stock brokers HAVE?). Eddie helps DeNiro's character broker some "deal of the century" and who gives a shit if thousands of employees get laid off or ass raped? 'Cos Eddie is WINNING!!!

Eddie is such a winner he may (or may not) have murdered a woman he picks up in a bar. But never mind that because then he has to win back the Perky Blonde who dumped him for previously being a slacker and then stop the Bad Guys from stealing his stash of NZT (Christ, the comparisons to cocaine just about hit you in the face).

At one point Perky Blonde Girlfriend sez something like "This drug is a lie" -- yet another cocaine reference -- but then the script and the plot dashes off for another dizzying round of tracking cam shots and punchy soundtrack.

Of course the muddled message is the same old trope: "winners" get lots of tail and lots of money and losers don't.

All this reminds me of something a high school teacher said to me eons ago: "The most interesting people are interested."

Who would wanna spend ten minutes in a room with a know-it-all like Eddie?

Monday, July 25, 2011

Goodbye Amy

And Russell Brand surprised everyone by writing a lovely and hella insightful eulogy.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Dear Hyper Procreating Jesusfreaks,

Please stop. No really, stop. You know what's gonna happen on Dec. 31, 2011? Nothing. Likewise for Dec. 31. 2012 and every New Year after that. As the dreary bumper sticker says: Same Shit, Different Day. The traffic jams, the disappearing resources and clean air, the endless wars over religion? It will all still be here, sweetie.

No rapture. No baby Jesus come to rescue you from sublimating your libido by calling it "God's Plan" that you pump out as many babies as possible right before you develop a prolapsed uterus, agonizing pain and flop over dead. (Versus taking ownership of your sexuality and you and hubby joining a swinger's club while using lots and LOTS of contraception).

You know what I see when I look at your puffy-faced husband, a "man of God"? Hell no. I see a stray tomcat humping away on a six-month old female cat like there's no tomorrow. That one stray tomcat will fill the cages of the local Humane Society to overflowing but what's he care? He's only a dumb animal. It's society's job to be responsible for him.

Likewise, if your puffy-faced, brainwashed Jesusfreak husband dies in a car accident tomorrow, what's he care? He doesn't have to pay for your continued existence in a suburban barn/child-holding shed. Can't pay for the kid's food in his absence? Not his problem! Why dying would be an almost Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card for your husband or you at this point. (So would him coming out as gay and running off to South Beach, but that's another blog).

You're doing this because "the Bible tells you so?" The Bible was written 2,000 years ago by a bunch of old Jewish men, none of whom actually knew Jesus. There's more instructions in the Bible on how to slaughter a goat or stone your daughter if you suspect her of being a slut than there is on living life in the 21st Century. I bet I could find quotations more valid and topical for the Here and Now in a car repair manual.

Breeder Jesusfreaks, your children are what we'll all be eating in a few years, when the earth's population hits 9 billion (9,000,000,000), all the oil's gone, the electricity goes out and there's no more 2-for-1 coupons at MallWort. You're not producing "God's children" you're ensuring our chowing down on soylent green. You're making cattle.