My new home...

www.rubencarbajal.net

A Christmas Wish...

And A Merry Christmas to you...In Jail!

Christmas gives me the creeps. Holiday music injects a crawly fear into my bloodstream that envelops me in a full-on dread making it all but impossible to shop any time in December. I hate the wave of consumerism, the fanatical droves purchasing crap destined for landfills. I hate the gifts that bring into sharp relief how little we truly know one another. I hate eggnog: it's like drinking full-on snot. Am I grinching out enough for you? Good, because I have a confession to make. I love, absolutely and wholeheartedly with no reservations, Frank Capra's It's A Wonderful Life. It chokes me up every time. I'm also a fan of The Great Rupert, starring Jimmy Durante. Any film starring a stop-motion squirrel is okay in my book. Hey, without confounding contradictions, life would be really boring. Netflix The Great Rupert

Bed Stuy Carol

Woke up and noticed snow covering Bed Stuy. Then I heard a man yelling angry obscenities. Then I heard a gun shot. Next, a series of car alarms. Low flying-airplane. Police helicopter. The song Silent Night came into my head, but with a different set of lyrics.

Bed Stuy Carol
(Sung to the tune of Silent Night)

Bed Stuy, gentrify
Just enough, for a coffee shop
Non-China take-out would be nice
Or a corner without drug vice
Sleep with no car alarm shriek
Sleep with no car alarm shriek

Bed Stuy, gentrify
Not I hope, like Park Slope
High rents and boutiques up the butt
The only place whiter’s Connecticut
Strollers fill me with unease
Strollers fill me with unease

Puppet Dictators

Strings Attached Day One wrapped recently. Writing a web/tv pilot involving a cast of reprehensible puppets was some of the most fun I've had in a long time. Shooting webisodes for a cast of reprehensible puppets was a daunting challenge, but one that ended up being almost as good a time. Pictures courtesy of Sophocles Papavasilopoulos, who is composing the theme song. Come see the rest of the Strings Attached shoot.

Three Things Theater Can Do For You

Theatreforte starts the day with a challenging post:

Someone very smart wrote that if you can fulfill one of three needs, people will do anything for you.

* Aid their health. * Make them richer. * Do something for their kids.

So, how does Theater address these needs?

Let's see...

Health: People who are engaged in their communities and have strong social bonds are physically and mentally healthier. Theater, unlike watching TV or surfing the web, provides human interaction. It goes beyond film, which is also experienced as a group, by the live contact we have with actors. It’s an art form that was created to elicit discussion and create a dialogue with those around us. By forcing us question and define our societal values, Theater, by its very nature, is exists to strengthen community. A stronger community means a healthier community.

Wealth: Theater isn’t co-opted by commercials. When you watch a play, you aren't interrupted every thirteen minutes by announcements of new medications for completely made-up conditions. No pop-ups, product placements, or coming attractions. Isn’t it great to sit in your seat and get exactly what you paid for? For 90 minutes or so, you can be completely engaged in a work of the imagination. Does this make you wealthier? Maybe not, but at least you don’t walk out wanting more crap you didn’t need in the first place.

Think of the children: I can only speak for myself on this one. Seeing my first play (The Wizard of Oz, Pabst Theater, Milwaukee, age 8) is one of the childhood experiences that I can recognize as life altering. I still vividly remember walking into the opulent, century old building. When the curtains parted, the show tapped into my imagination, engaged me on a level that went beyond anything I’d been exposed to at this point. It was the first experience in my life that made me feel that there might actually be magic in the world. (I was a kid who pretended to believe in Santa Claus for the benefit of my parents) Later on, as a High School student, I rediscovered theater, which I fell into almost by default. I didn’t like sports, play an instrument, and found myself adrift. If I hadn’t wandered into our school’s theater department, I can honestly say I would probably be pumping gas at the local Citgo right now. Theater became my only reason to come to school. For a depressed teenager who found little to care about, Theater was something that involved me, activated me, and gave me a means to express myself. It provided a kid who nearly missed getting his diploma a set of skills that not only got me through high school, but helped me excel in college. It provided me with a love of reading, writing, and taught me to think abstractly and critically. I often make sarcastic comments about being playwright, that I write in a dying art form, have a skill that will never feed me on its own, etc, etc... When it comes down to it, without the risk of overstatement, Theater saved my life.

Johnny Rotten Versus Judge Judy

Some sad garbage from Television's unending heap. I never thought an icon of my generation would collide with an icon of my grandmother's, but here it is. This is the kind of entertainment you get in a world without writers.

Are you there Blog? It's me, Ruben

Oh Blog! has been on an unofficial hiatus. I've acquired an exciting new freelance writing assignment, been collaborating on cool blogsite where this column will soon live, and just finished shooting the first two episodes of my puppet series Strings Attached. More on all of these projects will be coming soon. In the meantime, I wanted to share another Writer's Strike moment of solidarity brought to you by the talented Mike Shapiro, the man responsible for bringing my play The Gifted Program to life. Enjoy this collaboration with some cast members of SNL, The Mighty Pen, and send some bigwigs a box of pencils to show them where you stand!

Re-runs and You

Matt Slaybaugh posts intelligently and passionately on the Writer's Strike for the quintessential theater blog theatreforte. Here's a great feature on why the strike matters. And, if re-runs start making you anxious, why not see a play or read a book? May I suggest something from the sidebar on the right?

Celtx, screenwriting software set free!

Looking for screenwriting software? Wringing your hands over whether to spend your hard-earned cash on Final Draft or Movie Magic? They're both serviceable programs, with various pros and cons. Either one will set you back at least 150 bucks, not exactly a bargain. What if I told you about an excellent alternative, and one that was absolutely free? Free you say? Yes, says I! Ruben, you sure are one cheap bastard, says you. I've been using Celtx for over a year, and now can't imagine life without it. The new Version .9.9.5 released this year with upgrades that could put its two competitors on the endangered species list. For users familiar with professional screenwriting programs, the interface is recognizable, with options that format your screenplay automatically as you go. Celtx remembers your character names and locations, and has all the basics that allow you to focus energy on writing rather than fiddling with margins. Celtx, like Final Draft and Movie Magic, has settings for Plays, Radio Plays, AV Scripts, Documentaries and Music Videos. With the new version, you can also create index cards, storyboards, breakdowns and schedules. Not bad, right? An exciting Celtx feature I haven't tested, is its ability to enable collaborative work. With Celtx, projects are saved on your hard drive, as well as on the Celtx online server. You can keep your work private, or share it with others. As I'm about to go into pre-production with a new video project, I'm really excited to test out this project-sharing mode. My favorite thing about Celtx is its PDF generation. In the past year, I've uploaded all my previous plays and projects into Celtx and converted them into PDF files. This has allowed me to start submitting work digitally, something I was reluctant to do in the past. I've found uploading Word files into Celtx to be pretty convenient. It automatically formats scripts written in Word, but you'll find you'll have to do a bit of format-tweaking afterwards (something you'd have to do with FD or MM). The new version has eliminated most of the gripes I'd reserved for the software. Celtx .9.9.5 runs really smoothly, and some of the small formatting bugs that used to crop up seem to have been dealt with. There's also a handy video tutorial that expertly explains the basics, so you can get right to work. Celtx runs on Windows, Mac, and Linux, and uses Firefox code as a platform. Why not give it a try, and let me know what you think!

Relex your tired of bady

Shanghai was full of incredible sights and smells. Smells that rivaled anything in New York at the end of August. And bicycles. Standing at crosswalks, you felt like you were watching the Tour de Chine go by. Skyscrapers of all shapes and sizes, cranes everywhere, busy building more. With 11 million citizens, sprawling Shanghai makes Manhattan feel like Milwaukee. My hotel was near three enormous high-end malls. We're talking Burburry, Channel, etc all at New York prices. What's crazier is these places were filled with locals who weren't flinching at the price tags like I was. About five blocks from stores that featured $1500 purses and $700 sweaters, people were pushing wheel barrels full of rice and washing their clothes in buckets on the sidewalks. If you're interested in finding out why luxury stores are crowding a country where the average citizen makes $1000 a year, check this article out. It'll make you think twice about buying anything with a label on it again. Well, I couldn't go all the way to Shanghai and not bring my seven faithful readers a little gift. No, not a My Blogger Went to China and All I Got was this Lousy T-Shirt. The lousy T-Shirt you're wearing is already from China. So is almost everything you own, hopefully not your toothpaste. Crest, now with the power of Lead! I bring you: My Favorite Shanghai Signage Moments: (Thanks to Jessica Goldstein for photos!) 9. Beware of Slip 8. Nice Sunday DVD Bar (A rental shop, but I like the idea of DVD Bar) 7. Hot Wind (An unfortunately-named Urban Outfitters type store) 6. LAME-X (Giant corporate building declaring itself in bold red letters) 5. A store bringing you "Coffee" and "Massage" 4. Less's More (Discount store) 3. Pretty Woman Bar next to Goodfellas Bar 2. 1.

One Writer's Tale of Horror

Or How One Norwegian Film Cost Me $50,000

I was going to give a list of my favorite obscure Halloween Movies in honor of this great holiday. Instead, I thought I'd give you something much scarier. It's the tale of how this writer screwed up his chance at a paid gig writing for Disney. It's not for the weak of heart. Oh, and please forgive the film-noirish, guy-on-a-bar-stool, Glory Days kind of start to this story...

It's 2003. Things are good. As good as they've ever been for me. My play The Gifted Program is running in a very fine production in Chelsea. The week before, the show had been trashed by Time Out New York. (This was before I learned that this is the ultimate sign of quality) It was at this low morale point in the run when, out of nowhere, a capsule writer for the New Yorker reviewed the show and loved it. Gifted began selling tickets. Dramatist Play Service and Samuel French both wanted to publish my play. I was on cloud nine.

A short while later, I got a phone call from Disney. I made the first cut of the Walt Fellowship. For those of you not in the know, the Walt is a competition that Disney offers to up-and-coming writers. They select five writers a year and pay them a $50,000 salary to create screenplays or TV scripts for them. If selected, you must move to LA, and spend a year there as an employee.

I exist in a sort of sub-economy, as if Costa Rica had extended its borders to encircle me permanently. So in terms of dollars, 50,00 US is probably more like 1.7 million to me. Not only would I have a great new job, it was a great new job with full benefits. At this point in my life, my health insurance plan consists of a dog tag I wear requesting medical personnel euthanize me for anything worse than a broken leg.

I nailed the phone interview, the last hurdle to make it to the semi-finals. I was uncommonly calm and normal, and had a really enjoyable conversation about old movies. The producer I interviewed with was also a huge fan of It's A Wonderful Life. Something just told me I was going to make it to the next round.

So I wasn't entirely surprised when I got the call. What was surprising was the fact that I was the only New Yorker, and the only playwright. (Something I wish they would of never told me) A short while later, I flew out to LA for my big interview.

I was put up in a nice hotel, somewhere near Universal City. Spent the day with some good friends, who kept me in high spirits and really helped alleviate the stress. On the advice of a level-headed pal, I had put together speaking points and anticipated a few questions I might be asked. More excited than nervous, I was looking forward to the interview.

In the morning, a leisurely coffee and newspaper. Next, twenty minutes in the outdoor hot tub, musing at the palm trees above me. I put on a carefully-regarded, slightly dressed-up outfit, and went over my talking points one more time. I was relaxed. I was ready.

What I wasn't ready for, however, was my hotel's policy of taking a 150 dollar deposit for incidentals. As I pulled out cab money from an ATM to get to the studios in Burbank, I realized I was now worth a grand total of 3 dollars. There was nothing to be done. I had to get to the interview, and worry about getting back to the hotel, eating, and finding my way to the airport, all for under 3 bucks, some other time.

The taxi ride was nerve-wracking. I wasn't sure if I had enough to get there, and didn't know if I could find the studios on foot if I didn't. Gauging the meter like it was counting down the minutes to my execution, I made it with enough spare change to give a tip that merely made me look like a jackass, instead of a complete sponger.

I walked through the gates of Disney Studios as an invited writer and guest. It was the only real moment of glory I would have.

First mistake. I got to the interview way too early. My calm excitement turned to regular excitement, then to nervousness. After a half hour in a leather lobby chair, I was sweating and felt ill. A nice assistant asked if I needed a water. I took it, and considered pouring it over my head. Eric McCormack from Will & Grace walked past me and smiled. This only made me feel more unreal. By the time I got called in, I was pretty wrecked.

I'm at a long table. Eight producers enter the room, sit. The questions begin. Out of the starting gate, things are pleasant. We talk about movies, and a young guy makes the assumption that I want to write indie films. He's trying to be helpful, but I happen to be applying for a job with Disney, which, let's face it, isn't the home of the Little Movie That Could. I answer honestly that I want to make pictures that my family back in Wisconsin would want to see. I make a joke that they haven't seen a movie in a theater since John Candy died. It gets a small laugh.

The thing about meetings like this is you can really tell from moment to moment who is with you and who isn't. For me, the room is constantly shifting. I gain one person, lose another. Ten minutes into the interview, and from the looks on the faces around me, I'm split; four are with me, four against. I'm going to have to start saying something intelligent.

Someone mentions the fact that I'm the only New Yorker, and the only playwright. I'm relieved, as I had prepared for that line of questioning. The only thing is, all the talking points I've made for myself start coming out all wrong. For some reason, I'm taking on this edgy, defensive attitude. I'm saying things and as I'm saying them I'm thinking to myself, "Wow, you're sounding like a real ass." I go on a minor rampage about how it's actually an advantage to be a playwright and not a screenwriter, because I can sit with every audience and know exactly what works and what doesn't. That I'm responsible for putting people in seats, entertaining them, all on the basis of my hard earned, slowly gained reputation. You can fool people with special effects or star power, but as a playwright you only have the power of your work. It's all going over like a fart in church. My foot isn't in my mouth, it's somewhere in the lower intestines at this point.

Mercifully, someone changes the subject. They throw me an underhand pitch: What was the best movie you saw this year? Such an easy question, right? The devil on my shoulder smirks. He whispers: "Pirates of the Caribbean! Pirates! Say it!" I can't do it. I hated Pirates of The Caribbean. The only reason I didn't walk out was the punk rock teenager across the aisle that had dropped too much acid and was causing a really entertaining commotion. Devil: "Come on, you can do it. Just say it with me now: Pie. Ruts. Ov. The. Care. A. Bee. Yun. Fif. Tee. Thow. Zund. Doll. Ahs!" "Elling." Eight blank faces. "I'm sorry, what did you say?" "Elling." "Elling?" "Yeah. It's a Norwegian film." More silence. Seven blank faces. The Young Guy, God bless him, is dutifully writing down the name of the film, like he really intends to see it. "It was nominated for an Academy Award last year. It's about two mentally ill roommates who get a chance to live in regular society. They have to find jobs, make friends. But just walking around the corner to get groceries is an ordeal. It's extremely funny."

Needless to say, the interview was soon over. There was a friendly, upbeat goodbye from everyone, but I knew I had blown it.

Now there was the matter of getting home. I called the hotel demanding they release my money, but they wouldn't budge. It's about five miles from Burbank on foot, if you know where you're going. I hopped on a bus, walked a few miles, mistakenly got on the subway, and walked some more. I'm not the first person to make this remark, but walking anywhere in Los Angeles makes you an instant, fringe-dwelling freak. Which, justly, is exactly where I fit into the echelons of Los Angeles. It was very dark by the time I finished that lonely trek.

I ate the cheapest fast food I could find, and convinced a soft-hearted friend to drive me to the airport. When I touched down in New York, there was just enough change left over for a metro card to get me to my apartment via bus and subway transfer.

Prospect Heights seemed unusually quiet when I finally arrived back to my own private Costa Rica. If I were a samurai, this would've been the point at which I committed ritual seppuku. Luckily, I was merely a writer, and was at the very least, home.

********

Elling? Yes, Elling. I stand by my movie. After you're done with your horror-movie marathons, netflix it or buy it. If you do, pour a little of your 40 on the sidewalk for me. Happy Halloween!

Whiting Award & Black Snake Diamonds

Not sure why this news hasn't rocked the Theatersphere, but it was recently announced that Brooklyn-based playwright Sheila Callaghan is one of ten emerging writers to be honored with this year's Whiting Award. If there's a single writer out there who deserves the recognition and a check for $50,000, it's her. Sheila was also kind enough to let me read her incredible new screenplay, Fish Bites Fish's Tail, one of the best I've ever read, which was a finalist in this year's Nicholl's Screenwriting competition. Look here in the future for an interview with Sheila on writing for the screen! In other news I'm thrilled about, Yep Roc Records has re-released the first three post-Soft Boys albums of indie-rock iconoclast Robyn Hitchcock, in the box set I Wanna Go Backwards. Also available separately, Black Snake Diamond Role is an atmospheric pop-rock gem, with Robyn backed by members of the Vibrators, The Psychedelic Furs, and Thomas Dolby. I Often Dream of Trains and Eye are dark and acoustic, reminiscent of Plastic Ono Band and perfect listening for the approaching darkness of fall. "Like books, records deserve to be in print. But Graham Greene didn't have to keep coming up with bonus tracks each time they reprinted Brighton Rock." -- Robyn Hitchcock

You Tube Slacking

I'm back in the States, I'm jet-lagged, and I haven't finished putting together my tidbits from my trip to China. So here's some delicious You Tubery, with absolutely no nutrients to speak of. 1. The real Roxanne? Big deal. I'm Doctor Roxanne. (Fans of early Rap music, this is a must-see:) 2. Why I am a writer: Reason #3,654 To continue this blog's underlying theme of public self-mortification: here's my starring role as bad-ass homo-erotic cowboy, Stagger Lee, in this black and white homage to Nick Cave, circa 1996. Thanks to Martin Fossum for posting this blast from my past. Sorry, Mr. Cave, I really tried my best to be hard. But by the reactions of my wife, I'm just unassuming and side-splittingly nerdy.

Lilah Vandenburgh makes one funny Bitch

Last year I saw a short film so awesome I began to wish I was a powerful studio exec with the power to "greenlight." That film was Lilah Vandenburgh's comedy with a punk-rock heart, Bitch. Well, my wish came true, sort of. Right now Bitch is a featured contender in the Dotcomedy Shorts competition at NBC. If Lilah's film get enough votes, she'll win a gig to develop a new TV pilot. Watch Lilah's film right now, and vote! It'll be the best fifteen minutes you've spent all week. Stray readers from LA can see the West Coast premiere of Bitch at the ArcLight Theater 13 November 5th and 7th.

Panic on the streets of...

Though my first bleary-eyed hours in London were done on a single hour's sleep, it was difficult to contain my excitement. Here, scrolling past my window was the city mentioned in so much of the music I hold dear; The Clash, Kinks, Stones, and in particular, The Smiths. As I took in that solidly dreary and uninviting sky, a small mystery of my life had come closer to being solved. That is: How does a Mexican-American teenager living in Wisconsin connect so deeply with a band that contained a world of references, literary and regional, he could know nothing of? Racine, Wisconsin and London couldn't be more different, but that sunless and impossibly bleak overcast, must be a piece of the puzzle. Another clue might be found in the recent documentaries Their Charming Hombre and Is It Really So Strange, both exploring the curious hold that Morrissey's music has on Hispanics living in the Los Angeles.

"I knew that somewhere, under these piles, there were a few yellow pads I had put there, many years ago..." -- Harold Pinter

Everyone knows we should recycle because it's good for the environment. But it can also be good for your writing. No, I don't mean rehashing the same schtick over and over. But try not to throw out anything that you've abandoned, are stuck on, or that just doesn't seem to work. Get a folder to live on your desk, and put all those fragments away for safe keeping. Once a year, pull it out. You might be surprised. I've rediscovered little nuggets that worked excellently in entirely different contexts. Sometimes the space and time put between you and that unfinished business will allow for a fresh perspective, and you can pick up from where you left off. (I've returned to scenes started over ten years ago) But don't take my word for it. Harold Pinter's masterpiece Moonlight would never have happened if he didn't reduce, reuse, and recyle. (Here's a great recent Pinter article from the NY Times)

Let's Enjoy the Slightly-More-Than Silence

I'm in Rome, faithful readers, all seven of you. I'm jetlagged, I only packed 1 pair of underpants, and no razor. But hey, I'm in Rome. I called the front desk and requested a rasoio, but think I may have said something very dirty by mistake. Though I'll have very little time for myself, I feel very lucky to just stare out the window of my shuttle bus to work, and gaze at this drop dead gorgeous city. I'm off to wander the streets and find some frutta de loomas, before my work day at Palalottomatica begins. * * * * * * * After a break of almost a decade, I've found myself writing short and curious little plays again. What are short plays for? I honestly don’t know. They fall into the category of things I enjoy writing but which the world has little use for. Others on this list: radio drama, essays about 80’s music, satirical treatments of beloved children’s books. That’s fine with me. Sometimes it’s nice to write things for their own sake. It’s like oiling the gears. So, if you're interested, here's Let's Enjoy the Slightly-More-Than Silence. Ideally, it would be performed in a park, or a remote area, very late at night.

Ways to Combat Writers Block #1: Ask Brian Eno

Generating story ideas, for me, is rarely a problem. In fact, I have so many every day, that I'll neglect writing them down. My blocks, when I have them, inevitably come somewhere in the transition between the first and second act. What to do when you hit a patch of quicksand? I'll forge ahead writing garbage, knowing that I can rewrite later. Or I'll skip ahead to another scene, or backtrack and rewrite an earlier passage. Taking a short walk can't hurt, unless you're prone, like I am, to stumble into traffic. On occasion, I'll ask myself for a solution before I go to sleep-- more times than not I'll wake up with a plan. But in those times when all else fails, why not turn to music pioneer Brian Eno for help? In 1975, Peter Schmidt and Eno created a system to fight creative roadblocks in the form of a deck of cards they called Oblique Strategies. Each card contains a simple creative nudge that can help you approach your dilemma in a novel way. For example, Destroy nothing. Destroy the most important thing. or What to increase? What to reduce? What to maintain? You can purchase a handsome edition of Oblique Stratagies directly from Brian Eno's website, but they're a little pricey. They'd sure make a meaningful holiday gift for that destitute writer in your life, hint hint. Some online versions exist, including this fine one from Minimal Design. What do you do to combat writers block? Are you immune? PS. While I'm on my Brian Eno kick, I should mention that this sublime album is my absolute favorite to write to.

Not Extinct Yet

Marc Bolan, inadvertant creator of Glam Rock and leading force behind T Rex, would've turned 60 years old this past Saturday. That is, if the mother of his child hadn't crashed his purple mini into a tree in 1977. I only mention it because the man sang passionately about cars, but never learned to drive. Bolan's music has given me untold hours of pure joy, and his songs never seem to lose their power to lift me up when I'm down. The uninitiated should start here or here (every home should have both) and enjoy.

It's Your Big Day

This past weekend, I got married.

This meant I had to write what I thought would be my most difficult writing assignment of my life: our vows. You know what? After a few butterflies, the words came quickly and impulsively. I got much of my inspiration from the plain, but profound clarity of a Quaker wedding ceremony.

The big day came, and as I exchanged the words I wrote for my exquisite bride, it felt like we were the only two people in the universe. It was an experience like no other. It passed like a dream, and when I came to, I turned to our friends Elka and Mike. God bless em', their faces were covered in tears.

We ended the day with a leisurely, and slightly decadent champagne brunch. At the height of the festivities, and after I'd had a few drinks, my dear friend and officiant Karen handed me the Marriage License. I began to scribble my name. Then I stopped. Oh oh. I signed the wrong place. The realization brought the house down like a ship's anchor had been dropped on our table. Luckily, we realized my error was not fatal, and I hadn't invalidated the most important day of our lives. Thank you Gayle, for making me the proudest, happiest man alive. "This day, then, is a ritual, and not an end in itself, but a continuation of the loving effort that is at the foundation of their union." -- from our big day

Why I am Lame

I got tagged by Adam-- the mission: List 5 things that certain people may consider to be "totally lame," but you are, despite the possible stigma, totally proud of. Own it. Oh, where to begin. You can probably trace all that follows to the tap lessons my Mom forced me into at age eight. In middle school I was a member of the Dungeons and Dragons Club (for more on that click here), collected comic books, and owned a Commodore Vic-20 PC. With said computer I would create music videos with bad blocky graphics containing thousands of lines of BASIC. Shall we move into my Born Again Christian Drama phase? Some of my earliest works were sketches that almost inevitably ended in "freeze frames" and an omniscient off-stage voice quoting the Bible. There were two basic eras in high school: my Echo & The Bunnymen Age with an ozone-depleting Robert Smith-type hairstyle, and my Morrissey Clone years. I'm an adult now, so I'm finally cool, right? Well, I guess, if you consider the postcard fairs I frequent with my friend Ian to be cutting-edge. Or that my favorite hang-out is the Brooklyn Public Library. Recently, my wife and I popped into a comic book store, where there was a poster of about 500 Marvel superheroes. It didn't matter who she pointed to, I could name them all, even Bartroc the Leaper. Why stop here? Five of the Worst Movies I Love (Non-Horror Category) (Click through to Netflix) 1. Last of the Mohicans Humiliating to admit, but I enjoy watching this, especially when I’m sick in bed. Cornball? Yes. It hurts to say this: I like it. 2. Henry & June Indefensible. It just doesn’t work. But my love of Henry Miller trumps all common sense. Uma Thurman gives a reprehensible performance, though is it her fault? The movie plays like bad Showtime soft core. I know I’m wrong. 3. Body Double With an entire Frankie Goes to Hollywood video as its centerpiece, you know you’re teetering on precarious ground. But I can’t resist its seamy, melodramatic, implausible, over-the-top DePalmaness. When this guy nails it, he can be a fine filmmaker, see Carrie. But when this guy drops the ball, look out. Have any of you had the misfortune of seeing The Black Dahlia? My review of that movie is a simple- WTF? That, and Scarlett Johansson Must Hang. 4. Jackass 1 & 2 It is morally questionable to watch, let alone endorse these movies. They are puerile basement-grade crap. And yet, do I detect a lineage with Tristan Tzara? No, I’m just fooling myself. However, these movies have made me laugh so hard that I literally couldn’t breathe. 5. St. Elmo’s Fire I can’t explain it. Whenever this movie is on, I can’t tear myself away from it. I don’t know why. It’s not good. It’s not even so bad it’s good. For me, this movie is a virus that sneaks past my firewall of good taste.

Henry Miller's Writing Commandments...

"Don't be nervous. Work calmly, joyously, recklessly on whatever is in hand."

--Henry Miller's Work Schedule and Writing Commandments circa 1932-1933, around the time he was writing Black Spring.

(Excerpt from Henry Miller on Writing)

Rogue tire fells Lower East Side jogger

It was the tire! Sounds like the guy is okay... http://www.amny.com/news/local/am-tire0919,0,709193.story

New York Stories

Spent the evening with my fiance' on the Lower East Side to catch Chicks & Giggles, which has to be one of the best stand-up shows in the city right now, and it's 100% free of charge. On the way to Mo Pitkins, we approached a Dunkin Donuts. A silent crowd had gathered, never a good sign. The entire front window of the store was shattered from the inside out, with tiny shards of glass all over the sidewalk. On the ground, a robust guy, probably close to six feet tall, on his back, barely conscious. No blood, thank god, but he looked like he was in pain. Gayle urged me not to rubberneck, but I couldn't bring myself to leave until I knew What in the hell had happened. Did someone push him through a window? Was he shot? Hit by a car? Did those enormous tractor tires near the scene have something to do with it? No one seemed to have answers. I dragged my feet, confounded and haunted, as an ambulance pulled in. It reminded me of a Lower East Side of an earlier era, particularly of a story that happened to me a good dozen or so years ago. This was pre-Guliani, back when it wasn't unusual to see people openly deal drugs, smoke pot, or drink on the streets. Walking with some friends somewhere near the punk rock shops on St. Marks, we noticed a crowd. As I began to wonder what was going on, I realize I've almost stepped on a dead woman. She was thin, early twenties, wearing a translucent nightgown. Her skin was grey, blood streaming out of the side of her head. Someone pointed towards the third floor fire escape. "She just jumped." I look back down at her, my stomach feels like it's filled with ice water. Her eyes open. The crowd screams. In the next moment, she's on her feet. "Get the fuck away from me!" Everyone backs away, as she heads towards the curb, and hails a cab. A cabbie slows to a near stop, but getting a good look at her, squeals away in terror, almost knocking the woman over. By this time, a couple of EMT's have her by the elbows, urging her into an ambulance. I can't help but wonder, where was she taking that cab to?

Three Bits of Lost Middle School Slang

Continuing the Back to School Theme... Are you a centenarian in Internet Years? Did your home have a rotary phone, likely avocado green with a permanently knotted cord? While watching television, did you ever change the channels by turning a dial*? Do you know what UHF is? Can you recall purchasing 45s in department stores like KMart? Were you ever desperately afraid you might be caught entering a Kmart, or even worse, purchasing something while it was on a blue light special? Have you ever waited by the radio with a blank cassette in an attempt to capture a song? As a child did you spontaneously play with fellow neighborhood children without your parents scheduling the activities in advance? If so, let me be the one to break the news: you are old. You have analog memories. Welcome to the club. Here are some bits of odd, arcane Middle School colloquialisms that until now, were lost to history. Monkey Plastics [muhng-kee plas-tiks] -adj. A term of bitter scorn and humiliation, used in reference to a pair of sneakers that did not adorn the logo of a popular name brand. Example: Jeff's sneakers resembled Air Jordans, but were, to his dismay, Air Ryders. Purchased by his rational, hard working parents, who couldn't imagine why they should be expected to pay 125 dollars for a pair of gym shoes. As soon as Jeff entered Phy Ed Class, he was not in the least surprised when someone pointed to his shoes and yelled, “Look at Jeff with those monkey plastics!” Psyche [sī'kē] - intrj. An interjection of a small, and stupid victory. Often times inflicted by a jock type over a nerd type. An overused ritual prank popular in the 1980's. Example: A wiseguy would come up to you, extend his hand and say, “Hey, give me five!” You, being the good sport that you are, attempt to slap his hand in return, as was the fashion of the day.** Whereupon the wiseguy would quickly remove his hand, and in a continuous motion, slick back his hair. As you caught nothing but air, the wiseguy would yell, “Psyche!” You had been the victim of a psyche out. Dud /dʌd/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciati[duhd] - n. A bad joke. If your attempt at comedy went over like a fart in church, someone would inevitably call you out by saying, “Dud.” The “dud” craze sweeping my Junior High was delivered a blow by Mr. Baggot, teacher, fourth grade Social Studies, who banned the word. This was in no small part due to his liberal use of puns and other lowly witticisms. * If you turned that dial too quickly, one of your parents would freak out, claiming that this would harm the TV. The only reason they believed this was due to the fact they were of an even more distant time, when television sets cost as much as a car, and were fragile, fussy instruments. In fact, televisions of the 70’s and 80’s are nearly indestructible. For example, my Grandmother’s beloved mammoth Zenith cabinet television purchased in 1983, only just recently died. She now sports a digital wide screen. I do not have cable, and still use rabbit ears. It is shameful thing when your 83 year old Grandmother who cannot operate a DVD player is technologically younger than you. I’m curious though, Grandma Show Off: do Judge Joe Brown and Cops come in high definition? ** I believe the last time I gave someone five in earnest was in August of 1987, after a rare, but successful top-of-the -key-shot completed in a schoolyard game of Horse.

School's in for Autumn!

School is back in session. My favorite time of year. Cheap and abundant office supplies. Kids blowing off steam at recess, the finest din imaginable. Shorts will be disappearing from the landscape. I always get an inexplicable surge of energy come September. Today, the coffee shop worker asked if I get the student discount. Bless you. I'll pay 10 percent extra if you'll ask me that every order. If you're with me, why not celebrate with some: Back to School Cinema (Click through to Netflix) 1. Bad Boys Compare Penn's performance to his turn in the unforgivable Mystic River, and meditate on how far he has strayed. 2. Over the Edge Matt Dillon's first picture. Burnouts blow up the school. See what happens when you close the rec center? 3. My Bodyguard Aside from one horrible montage (was there a law in the 80's that movies must contain them?) this is one of my favorite high school films of all time. 4. Rumblefish Thinner than The Outsiders, but worth your time. Diane Lane may melt your DVD player. 5. The Chocolate War Recently released on DVD, catch it if you've played out your John Hughes. Fine soundtrack.

God Bless You, Mr. Vonnegut

I cut this article from a Spin Magazine, sometime in the 80's. It's been a fixture above my desk ever since. How to write with style

Miss You

I was so proud of my brand new pants; I decided to sport them around Vegas as soon as I got back to the hotel. As I gallivant through the lobby, I'm getting strange looks from tourists and bellmen alike. What's a matter, jealous of my new chinos? When I enter a cab to go to work, the cabbie looks me over and asks, Is that label there on purpose? referring to the bright blue 30/30 sizing sticker that covers the side of my left leg. Arrived at the airport, excited to get back home, and realized I forgot to pack the keys to my apartment. Hey, even The United States Air Force has a little mind-fart once in a while. The important thing is to remember that they can happen to anyone.

You Can Go Back Home: Deflowering Waldo in Racine

I'm always glad to get some good news from my hometown. When I discovered New York toast-of-the-downtown playwright Adam Szymkowicz's Deflowering Waldo is coming to Racine, Wisconsin, I practically did a spit take. The Racine I grew up in was not exactly known for cutting-edge theater. Mucho kudos are in order to the Over Our Heads Players for bringing a smart comedy and a little edge to a culturally conservative city. Their entire season is comprised of original works-- can't wait to check them out the next time I'm in town.

Wisconsinites mark your calendars: Deflowering Waldo by Adam Szymkowicz Apr 4, 5, 6, 11, 12, 13, 18, 19, 20, 25, 26 Sixth Street Theater 318 Sixth Street Racine, WI 53403

Not Writing Takes More Energy Than Writing

I have a great time ruminating over story ideas, playing what if, drafting countless screenplays in my head. Running through the turnstyle corridors in my mind is fun, but it's not writing. That's one of the many pitfalls of chronic sklyarking, or, as it's more commonly known: procrastination. Every day that I avoid writing, a creeping regret follows over me like a raincloud. Today I had a small realization: it takes more mental energy not to write, than it does to scratch out a page or two. Even a few pages of dialogue feels better than conjuring an epic trilogy in a trance.

Babies on the Strip

I’m in the middle of a two-week stint in Las Vegas, working as a Writer for the FIBA Americas Championship. My NBA Entertainment gig takes me all over the country and the world; in a few weeks I’ll be making my third trip to China. The Vegas Strip, however, is not a place you want to visit more than a weekend. If that. Not a fan of throwing money down a bottomless gullet in exchange for shiny lights with ringy bells? Or twice-warmed-over entertainment? Or whoring? Las Vegas Blvd. is not only boring, it’s a soul-sucking cultural black hole. If you’ve read Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing, you’ll know that his ugly, drug-induced vision has not only been realized, but surpassed. Vegas has skipped the middle-man and done the drugs for you. How else can you explain a place where Carrot Top is a headlining act? Or a fake New York that feels bigger than the real thing? How about advertisements for 99 cent shrimp cocktails designed to draw in customers*? The most horrifying Hunteresque experience has to be the commonplace existence of Babies on the Strip. 1AM, the Excalibur: the perfect place to bring your toddler! (Pictures to come) I’ve had a little fun. A night ride on the coaster at NY, NY. A fine little hole in the wall called, well, The Hole In The Wall. The restaurant that time forgot. A place where showgirls go to die. Surly bartender? Check. A 97 year-old, four-foot tall, hobbling accordion player? Check. Dinners complete with salad, two-liters of wine, and a “cappuccino” that’s really Swiss Miss Instant? Check. Okay, the food’s not that great, but the atmosphere is singular. It’s the kind of place that makes me homesick for New York, even though places like this are vanishing there, too. I miss Bed Study. I miss my fiancé. One more week to go. * I’ve had a little rule that kicked in back in high school, when Taco Bell had a Two-Tacos-For-A-Buck promotion: don’t ever eat meat that costs less than a dollar.

Print It Out

Sometimes I forget that I own a really nice printer. It's easy to keep your current writing project, whether a screenplay or a simple email, trapped on your monitor. I have a new post-it mantra on my desk: Print It Out. Not only do I always find a mistake or ten, getting a hard copy allows you have something physical in your hands. Remember the physical world? You know, that place with no hyperlinks, news feeds, or a world of tempting but useless information? Isn't it nice to feel a piece of paper in your hands? That red pen has a nice weight to it. Having a draft on paper allows you to read with less distraction and focus. Mistakes will leap out at you, ideas will come.

There's No Present Like Time

I've been putting off this blog for a long time. I've been putting off a lot for a long time. Today I said to myself, "The perfect blog exists only in my mind. Just start writing." If you're here, bless you, I don't know how you found this. What I want this blog to be: 1. Writing advice I wish I had starting out 2. Updates on my own writing 3. Blatant Self-Promotion 4. Championing the criminally unchampioned 5. Movie, music, theater reviews 6. Funny, biographical pieces I promise to concentrate on numbers 1 through 3, while going easy on 4-6. Today, I will fail miserably.