things, and junk and stuff
A brief survey of things.
Writing Group went well. I think that was out most successful dissection of a feature film yet. Brie's Parting Gifts is in good shape, but not in so good of shape we couldn't find things that needed work. Otherwise, why are we meeting?
Dollhouse did not win me over instantly, and gave me a lot to think about regarding why. It's hard to know which parts failed in the conception and which parts failed in the producers retooling it (which apparently there's been a lot of, poor Joss Whedon), but I can see what they're aiming for and it's hard to imagine they've set their trajectory and momentum right to get there, especially before some nasty-ass Fox producers decide to pull the plug in lieu of some cheaper, less potentially cerebral show about psychic cops or OCD lawyers or cranky doctors or whatever it is people like watching these days. Episodic shows with one interesting character, a peanut gallery, and interchangeable storylines rehashing one emotional message time and again. Safe television. Yawn.
(See, the closer I get to television drama -- and between watching two shows and reading just about everything the A.V. Club puts out each day, I am closer now than I've been in over a decade -- the more invective I get about it. Sorry.)
Got some drinks with Jessie last night, and Marathon burgers (yum). Bought a drink for a troublingly drunk older man named Carlos ("Not Santana") the Barber, or "Professional Hair-Cutter" ("but I don't have my own office"). He was amusing, if a bit of a nuisance. Insisted Jessie was my wife -- but then asked to come to our wedding -- and offered to have 40,000 angels "pop" anyone who messed with us. Told me he'd just got out of court that morning, but shhh, because his old lady wasn't happy about it, and reminded me more than once that he had a German luger (each time he brought this up, he reached into the back of his waistband, but I kept thinking, surely you don't actually have it on you, right, Carlos?). So I bought the man a Jack Daniels, delicately avoided giving him my phone number, and prayed with him for the angels to protect us. ("Do you feel that warmth? That new warmth? That's the power of my man Jesus, you've got The Protection.") Oh, and he told me his idea for my film/book/novel, because I'd had a moleskine out when he first interrupted my night: "Sometimes people are just talking into the wind." He repeated it several times, then made me promise not to tell anybody, because he learned it growing up in the desert (he also grew up in Hollywood, California, and he also grew up in Arizona, so I feel like I know Carlos's past pretty well at this point). "Do you ever feel that way? When you're alone. Whoosh!" He'd made a gesture, both hands flat pushing air away from his chest, maybe like a tai chi move. "That's the wind. Talking into the wind, see?" (Sorry if putting this in my livejournal has betrayed your trust, Carlos. But you did tell me to put it into my book, after all.)
Woke up late. Dreamt but let it slip away, though I think it was a pretty wild one.
Thinking I'll go see Frost/Nixon downtown now (as I said recently on twitter, "Turns out a missed an Oscar film. Nobody told me I had to take Ron Howard seriously. Well, I've come this far..."). Then come back, shower, write, read, relax. It wouldn't break my heart if by the end of this weekend I'd written 5 or 10 usable pages to begin The World of Missing Persons, but I'd settle for having a solid outline of Act Two.
Oh, P.S. Amy got me a copy of Disk Warrior and Sterling Hayden was saved. Thank the maker.
Writing Group went well. I think that was out most successful dissection of a feature film yet. Brie's Parting Gifts is in good shape, but not in so good of shape we couldn't find things that needed work. Otherwise, why are we meeting?
Dollhouse did not win me over instantly, and gave me a lot to think about regarding why. It's hard to know which parts failed in the conception and which parts failed in the producers retooling it (which apparently there's been a lot of, poor Joss Whedon), but I can see what they're aiming for and it's hard to imagine they've set their trajectory and momentum right to get there, especially before some nasty-ass Fox producers decide to pull the plug in lieu of some cheaper, less potentially cerebral show about psychic cops or OCD lawyers or cranky doctors or whatever it is people like watching these days. Episodic shows with one interesting character, a peanut gallery, and interchangeable storylines rehashing one emotional message time and again. Safe television. Yawn.
(See, the closer I get to television drama -- and between watching two shows and reading just about everything the A.V. Club puts out each day, I am closer now than I've been in over a decade -- the more invective I get about it. Sorry.)
Got some drinks with Jessie last night, and Marathon burgers (yum). Bought a drink for a troublingly drunk older man named Carlos ("Not Santana") the Barber, or "Professional Hair-Cutter" ("but I don't have my own office"). He was amusing, if a bit of a nuisance. Insisted Jessie was my wife -- but then asked to come to our wedding -- and offered to have 40,000 angels "pop" anyone who messed with us. Told me he'd just got out of court that morning, but shhh, because his old lady wasn't happy about it, and reminded me more than once that he had a German luger (each time he brought this up, he reached into the back of his waistband, but I kept thinking, surely you don't actually have it on you, right, Carlos?). So I bought the man a Jack Daniels, delicately avoided giving him my phone number, and prayed with him for the angels to protect us. ("Do you feel that warmth? That new warmth? That's the power of my man Jesus, you've got The Protection.") Oh, and he told me his idea for my film/book/novel, because I'd had a moleskine out when he first interrupted my night: "Sometimes people are just talking into the wind." He repeated it several times, then made me promise not to tell anybody, because he learned it growing up in the desert (he also grew up in Hollywood, California, and he also grew up in Arizona, so I feel like I know Carlos's past pretty well at this point). "Do you ever feel that way? When you're alone. Whoosh!" He'd made a gesture, both hands flat pushing air away from his chest, maybe like a tai chi move. "That's the wind. Talking into the wind, see?" (Sorry if putting this in my livejournal has betrayed your trust, Carlos. But you did tell me to put it into my book, after all.)
Woke up late. Dreamt but let it slip away, though I think it was a pretty wild one.
Thinking I'll go see Frost/Nixon downtown now (as I said recently on twitter, "Turns out a missed an Oscar film. Nobody told me I had to take Ron Howard seriously. Well, I've come this far..."). Then come back, shower, write, read, relax. It wouldn't break my heart if by the end of this weekend I'd written 5 or 10 usable pages to begin The World of Missing Persons, but I'd settle for having a solid outline of Act Two.
Oh, P.S. Amy got me a copy of Disk Warrior and Sterling Hayden was saved. Thank the maker.