6 posts tagged “writing”

- "Pssst. Lemme tell you a secret", he said, leaning over in his seat so that his shoulder was pressing against mine. "If you squint your eyes just right the buildings look like they're made of flames." He pointed to the skyline as the train slowly rolled away from downtown. Away from the offices and over-priced shops. Away from the collective depression of a million soul-sick workers. The bright orange glow of the setting sun was reflecting off the glass walls of the buildings that had held us captive for the last eight and a half hours. I squinted my eyes and followed his finger, the outlines of the skyscrapers blurring into a flickering orange glow that did, sort of, resemble fire in a cheap theatrical kind of way. I nodded my head and leaned back into him, getting close enough to smell the day's work on his skin. "I've got a secret for you," I said, my lips so close to his ear I could taste his daydreams. "The woman across the aisle isn't wearing any underwear." His eyes reflexively glanced at the woman in question and he reared away from me to look into my face. "You shouldn't be looking at such things", he said straightening himself out in his seat. "It isn't polite." I smiled. "Well, neither is whispering secrets on a crowded train, but I thought we were having a moment." He didn't answer me, his attention now focused on a crossword puzzle. I thought about apologizing and sharing a different, less offensive secret with him, but instead decided to try and reflect the light off my watch-face up the young woman's skirt for a better view.

- Jesus Christ was put on trail by the Gods of yore. The long list of charges included Inciting Disbelief, Failure to Pay Homage and Egotism. All punishable by death. As was expected, he defended himself, with Zeus prosiding and Cronus prosecuting. Things weren't looking good for the young savior until he called Eros as a suprise witness and questioned him as to his whereabouts on the night of March 15th, 1 B.C. When Eros finally admitted that it was he who had impregnated Mary the courtroom erupted. Zeus, no longer capable of commanding the heavens thanks in part to Jesus' popularity, beat his gavel until it finally broke before order was restored. "I rest my case", Jesus said with a wink at Zeus that would have warranted a lightning bolt back in his heyday. He closed his briefcase and strode from the courtroom, his sandals squeaking on the hardwood floor. All eyes were on Eros. He looked at the crowd of Gods and lesser gods, Thor, Dilga, Kon, Yum Kaax, Utu, Huitzilopchtli. "What can I say?" Eros shrugged. "She had a nice ass."

- The wind is shaking down the trees for loose change outside my window. I hear the coins clattering on the sidewalk down below. It would be so easy to just walk down and scoop them up, put them in my pocket and be the richer for it. But somehow it just doesn't feel right. I haven't earned them. Besides, I'm too lazy to put my flip-flops on.

- Do you ever wish you had a super power? What would it be? Mine? I would love to have the ability to make little, old ladies walk in a straight fucking line down the sidewalk. I hate trying to get around them and I always wind up feeling guilty later for hip-checking them into the fire hydrants.

- When I was a kid, my grandfather used to take me outside to watch "shooting star shows". I would make a wish every time I saw one of those blazing lines streak across the sky. I would be so excited for them to come true that I could barely get to sleep at night. The next morning I'd awake and find that my wish hadn't come true. There wasn't a new bike/swimming pool/Millennium Falcon sitting in the back yard, I'd pout. My grandfather would pick me up and put me on his knee and say "Don't waste your wishes on anything that will rust." When I got older and learned that they weren't "shooting stars" but rather meteors burning up in the Earth's atmosphere, I understood how Adam and Eve felt when they realized they'd been naked the whole time. But that didn't stop me from scanning the night sky, as I walked to my car in the hospital parking lot, as my grandfather lay dying in a strange bed. By the time I finally saw one, it was too late, his insides had already rusted over.

- Whenever I watch my nieces and nephew I can't help but wander what it would be like if people never out-grew the tantrum. I mean, wouldn't you love to see some guy in your office trying to get out of a meeting by going completely limp, the boss dragging his dead weight towards the conference room? I know I would.

- Sometimes I worry that my memories have all been replaced by short stories written by Frank Capra. This sucks for two reasons. One: I'm pretty sure he didn't even write short stories. Two: None of them are memorable enough to merit repeating.

- I think, when the final history book is written about our time here on Planet Earth, it won't be global warming or nuclear holocaust or plague that is penciled in after "Cause of Death". It will be stubbornness.

When we last left our time-challenged hero, he was trying to reschedule airline tickets and hotel reservations. After the successful conversation with the airline representative, where he didn't get his money back, but he didn't lose it either, he was hoping for much of the same from the hotel folks...

Now, I had already spoken with the LA Hilton and they were nice, but could do nothing because, technically, I didn't make the reservation with them, Netdirect did. So I would have to take my trouble to their doorstep and see what kind of mercy I would be granted. I had to wait until the next morning, because they are only available from 7-6 weekdays.

So, as soon as I got to work the next morning, I pushed aside all my actual work and grabbed the phone. When the woman answered the phone, I knew I was in trouble. She sounded like I had just interupted her bedside vigil with her dying mother. I told her that I wished to cancel a reservation that I had made through Netdirect. She asked for my confirmation number. As she was entering the number she said "Now you know that by cancelling this you don't get a refund?" I said "Yes, but..." All I heard was a click and then a dialtone.

As soon as I confirmed that I was aware of their no refund policy she cut me loose like the dead weight I was. She didn't want to hear my story, however sob-filled it might be. She'd probably heard a thousand such stories and had all the care and concern droned out of her by other travellers hoping to get around the rules once they realized they didn't want to play the game anymore. So the second she heard me affirm that I was dumb enough to pay for a hotel room online, to save myself what, in the end was no dollars, she hung up.

I sat there for a second, stunned at how quickly it had happened. The phones in our office have a timer display that begins the second the call is put through. I looked at the flashing numbers. 47 seconds. That's all it took. Talk about efficient. I bet the managers of that company love calls like mine. It means I want to give my money to them. Wouldn't you love to receive a call everyday where someone said "Hi, I just deposited $400 in your bank account. Goodbye." You don't have to suck up to them Don't even have to know their name. They just call you and you get their money. Brilliant business model.

In the future, though - and I want you all to promise me you'll do this too - I will call the hotel to see what kind of deal I can get first. Then I'll make a reservation through them, which never requires any money upfront, and can be cancelled with 24 hours notice. It's a pretty valuable lesson (pun intended) and one I will not soon forget.

But I'm not going to dwell on the sour grapes at the moment. Because tomorrow morning I board a jet to Los Angeles. Where dreams come true over cocktails and stories about hapless boobs who don't know how to make reservations can sell for millions.

I can see the title now "Dude, Where's my Plane?"

We're gonna chalk today's adventure up to "Lessons Learned". This is a pretty thick file in my life. There are all sorts of nuggets of wisdom in here; "Don't taunt bulls while you're on the wrong side of the fence." "Don't try to take hair-pin turns going 60 miles an hour." "Don't jump into plate glass windows." Real useful stuff. Now we can add "Don't make non-refundable airline and hotel reservations without checking the dates first."

I'm headed out to LA for a weekend television writing workshop with Ken Levine. His written for MASH, Cheers and Fraiser to name three of my favorite shows. When I found out he would be teaching a workshop that recreates the feel of a tv writer's room, I jumped at the chance to attend. Of course, as workshops go, it cost a pretty penny. $900 and change just for two days. But this guy knows tv comedy, so it's money well spent. Besides, I have a credit card that's just aching to be maxed out. I signed up for the workshop back in May. It's at the end of July. The 21st and 22nd to be exact. But somewhere in my short circuited brain, what I latched on to was "End of July".

So a few months passed and I realized I still needed to purchase a ticket out there and get a room for the weekend. I have friends out there, but they live closer to Hollywood, and the workshop is going to take place at the LA Hilton. Now, I'm not crazy about giving my hard-earned money to any business associated with a certain ex-con heiress, but it's the most convenient thing to do. (I've learned many times over that convenience trumps morals.) I do a little noodling around on the internets and find a pretty decent, non-stop flight and a discounted rate at said hotel. I don't even think about it. I grab them both. The flight was about $400 less than anything else I'd seen and by booking the hotel through this site, I saved another $100. Like money in the bank.

The weekend of July 27th is now booked. Oh no, don't ask me to come to your show, I'll be in LA. Sorry, I can't do rehearsals that weekend, I'll be in LA. What's that? You want me take your headshots that weekend, I'm sorry, I guess you haven't heard, I'll be in LA that weekend. Or so I've led myself to believe for about a month now. Never even gave it another thought. Patted myself on the back for making my reservations so far in advance. No last minute headaches here.

Today I received an email from the host of the workshop "5 days til Writer's Room" it starts. "Can't wait to see you all this weekend." What? I think to myself. That's odd, he must have sent it out a week early. Right? Anyone? A line of sweat breaks out on my forehead. A sinking feeling starts to fill my stomach. I re-read the email. He's talking about this weekend. But that's not right. Is it? I scan back through old emails. Emails, that by the grace of my laziness, I haven't deleted from my inbox. And there it is. A link to the website they set up about the workshop. One click will solve this little conundrum...

I stare at my screen. "July 21st & 22nd" it says. I continue to stare. I've spent over $2000 for two days worth of education at the feet of a master and I might not even be there. Because I, on the ball as I am, will be there a week later! What. The. Fuck?

First thing I do is call the hotel. The young woman on the phone is very helpful; "You want to reschedule your reservations? Not a problem. When were they for? Okay. I just need the confirmation number..." There's a pause here. I hear the clicking of her keyboard. She "hmmm"s to herself. "You made this reservation through a discount site, didn't you?" I am mentally slapping my cheapskate forehead. "Yes." I whisper. "I'm sorry, but I can't do anything to help you. You'll have to talk to them." And that's it. No supervisor to help. No amount of complaining will make it different. Because her hands are tied.

I can feel the muscles in the back of my neck start to tighten. I call the airline. Guess what? Same story. Yes, they can get me on another flight for this Friday but it will cost me $1300. So now, no only am I out the for the first reservation screw-up, if I don't want to flush my workshop fee down the shitter, I have to pony up another grand just to get me there. I tell the woman I'll call her back.

I slam things around my apartment. I slump on the floor and want to become one with the forgotten dust bunnies under the couch. (Hey, an M&M!) "This is bullshit," I tell myself. "This is the lesson you have to learn for not checking the date." I say, resigned to loosing all my money and my chance to sit in the same room with the man who used to put words in Hawkeye Pierce's mouth. "This is what you deserve."

I wish there was a rousing pep talk here. A speech where I tell myself that I do deserve this weekend. That it's not over until I say it's over. But it doesn't go down like that. I simply sigh and think "There's still room on the Chase Visa Card." And with that, I stand up and dust myself off. I sit down at the computer and pray to the internet gods for help. They have seen my suffer. They have heard my cries of anguish. They decide to take pity on me. I find a plane ticket cheaper than the first one. I don't hesitate, I take it. I call back the other airline to cancel my previous reservation. When they ask if I'd like to reschedule, I inform them that I've already done so through another airline for less money. They apologize and offer me a credit in the amount of my first ticket, which is good for one year. I thank them and accept. I call the hotel, they still can't help me with the first reservation, but they make a new booking that is for the same, discounted price.

As it stands right now, I'm only out the price of the first hotel booking. But that's only because the discount website's main offices aren't open after 6pm Chicago time. I fully intend to speak with them tomorrow. I'll let you know how it turns out. As well as the workshop that I will be attending.

Oh, and if we had plans for this weekend, I'm sorry, I'm going to be in LA.

So I have this hangup where I feel like every time I post something on here it needs to be brilliant. Or inspired. Or something. But that's just me wanting you to see how smart I am. How funny I am. Not how insecure I am. Because, really, who wants to see that in another person. It's awkward. It's the sort of thing we pretend we didn't notice when we do see it. But, well, it's also kinda boring. And inhibiting. For me. As a writer.

Sometimes, when and if you tune in to this odd little broadcast, you might think to yourself; "Self, what do you suppose this fellow was thinking when he posted this?" Or maybe; "Self, this is the lamest post I have yet come across on these here inter-nets." Or perhaps; "Self, why, oh why, am I referring to myself in the third person?" And if you do, well, I can't help that. Because, as much as I'd like to tell myself that I'm here to entertain you, I'm not. I'm here to try and get myself writing on a more regular basis.

You see, I'm a writer who doesn't write all that much. Sure, I have, on occasion, put enough words together to create an entire play. But the majority of writing I do takes place in my brain. I daydream about an idea, plot it all out, and then let it be. Sometimes I think to write these ideas down. Sometimes they amass themselves into five or ten pages of a story that has all the makings of play or a screenplay. But then I get distracted by some new idea and the old ones get pushed off to the side and forgotten like some many old toys. Things that once fascinated me, but now I have no time for.

Well that's what I'm going to use this blog for. To keep track of these ideas. To be my depository of inklings and brainstorms and wonderments. Maybe if I can collect enough of them together in one place they'll magically link themselves and bring forth a full fledged play. Or movie. Or really rad haiku. Only time will tell. And time, she is a moving on and has no plans to wait around long enough for me to get my ship together before the coming floods sweep me away to that far away isle from which no man returns.

So, Gentle Reader, bare with me, won't you. And who knows. Maybe somewhere along the way I'll pull back the curtain to reveal a place in time that will make you feel like the gods have reached down your throat and squeezed your heart nigh unto bursting.

Or maybe this blog will become so heaped with bullshit that it gets used to fertilize other, more productive, blogs.

Either way, I hope to make it an interesting journey.

Last night I dreamed that I was watching Steve Martin walk through a mall doing a bit about a lost purse. It was amusing stuff made all the funnier because no one else seemed to recognize him. I approached him and we began talking about movies and I noticed a three-ring binder that he was carrying that seemed to be made of wood with a bird of some sort carved into the front cover. It startled me, I tell him, because I had created a binder just like that one but had misplaced it years ago. He tells me that he doesn't remember where he found it, but it is now the binder in which he keeps all of his most sacred ideas. The next thing I know we're sitting in a restaurant, flipping through the binder and discussing a new idea that he's working on and I'm asked to help him. For some reason, I can't recall now, I got up and went outside as this amazing storm rolled across the sky. The clouds seemed to tumble over each other like an avalanche, everything getting darker and darker as the winds kicked up. Somewhere in my mind I remind myself that storms in dreams signify change. I went back inside, excited for the new changes that were headed my way that Steve and I were good chums and somehow managed to spill soda all over the table, which I tried to clean up while Steve wasn't looking...

And then I woke up.

I don't dream about celebrities a lot. In fact, I would say that other than Steve Martin, I have had very few dreams about celebrities. But for some reason, Steve pops up again and again. It's not surprising really. He something of a role model, I guess. But the dreams are almost always the same. Or rather, the plot of the dreams is always the same, since the settings are different each time. But in these dreams, I wind up seeing Steve somewhere, I introduce myself and begin chatting about writing or movies or what have you and before long we are laughing and carrying on like old friends. Then I wake up. At first I'm excited by the dream, but slowly a sense of sadness creeps into my heart as I realize that the excitement I felt wasn't real, but a dream and I am not best friends with Steve Martin.

Theater of the subconscience. But what do they mean? I suppose they mean whatever I want them to mean, but I wish there was some hard and fast rule on this. With my luck though, it would be something like, "Dreams don't mean anything. They are a series of electronic pulses in the brain designed to relieve stress while our bodies recharge for the next day." That would just take all the fun out of it. All the magic. That feeling that our dreams are trying to tell us something about ourselves. Maybe a glimpse into the future or a warning.

So the storm forbodes change. I did recently request that my hours be reduced at the law firm so that I could spend more time writing and taking photographs. And Steve Martin is someone I look up to. Someone I aspire to be like. So maybe he was me in the dream. A future me, if you will. And that's the reason I feel like I know him so well.

OR

Maybe I am destined to meet him and my subconscience is just trying to prepare me so I don't act like a total spaz when it finally happens.

OR

Maybe I shouldn't have drank a bunch of cider on an empty stomach and then chased it down with a couple of slices of cheddar cheese.

I'm going to go with the first scenario. But my fingers are crossed for number two.

P.S. If you're looking for a good flick to check out soon, go see Hot Fuzz. Simon Pegg, Nick Frost and Edgar Wright know how to make a damn funny, smart, entertaining movie.