Bangladoink!

On the Lot, or It's Still Real!

2008-06-24T00:49:00.000-07:00

My fellow Fellows in the features side of the 2008 Disney Writing Fellowship. Tim Stitzel, an LA boy originally from San Antonio, Roberto Marinas, a Canadian, eh, and Anthony Sclafani, from New York. I'd take a bullet* for these guys!

*Bullet must consist of soft or semi-soft spreadable cheese. Some restrictions may apply.

The WGA had a dinner for us when we started the program. I couldn't stop smiling when I first set foot in the building. For 5 years I had driven past this place, staring at it longingly, and now I was one of their guests of honor!

Of course, I later discovered the WGA library is open to the public and I could have walked in any time. Ha!

The TV and Features fellows during happier times. Before things got...ugly. Ho! Not really, things have always been at the exact same level of attractiveness. Good times.

Trying to follow in the footprints (handprints?) of giants. Part of the hall of legends plaza in the Disney Burbank lot.

Previously, on Bangladoink...

2008-05-04T18:17:00.000-07:00

Forget It, Tom, It’s Tinseltown
After 5 stressful years of me trying to make it as a screenwriter in LA, my wife and I moved back to Texas to raise our new baby daughter, Amelie, amongst family. I tried to put a positive face on, but, honestly, I felt defeated, crushed, like I’d given up on a dream.

This town'll chew you up, kid.

Deep In The Heart Of Texas
We moved in with my parents while I put the screenwriting thing behind me and looked for a “real job.” Couldn’t find one. Felt like a terrible husband and father. Still, my wife and daughter flourished, I'd never seen them so happy. And we were surrounded by people who love us. I figured it was a fair trade, my dream for my family's happiness. So I kept my dark thoughts to myself.

Mom shows off Amelie to extended family all over Texas.

It’s A Small World, After All
A few months later, hope from out of the blue: The organizers of the Disney/ABC Writers Fellowship called to tell me I was a finalist. It's a year-long program that pays you to write a screenplay while studio execs mentor you through the process of working in the studio system. It was incredible, after thinking I had failed at screenwriting, after months of looking for work unsuccessfully in Texas, I got another shot at the dream. It'd been so long that at first I didn't even remember I had applied to the program.

The Team Disney Bldg., where all the finalists were interviewed.

Enchanted, I’m Sure
Disney flew me out to LA, to meet the 14 other candidates for the 4 open writer slots, as well as the execs who act as mentors. Despite a few setbacks (like not getting more than 2 hours sleep during the 2-day event, and that in the back of a rental car), it felt like I'd won the lottery. At the very minimum I could get people to read my scripts now. And if I could just land an LA manager I could return to Texas and write from there. I mean, there were Ivy League candidates, I wasn't holding out much hope that Disney would choose me over these other talented people. (I later found out it's harder to get into the Fellowship than Harvard.)

Jason Reed, the Disney exec who worked on Enchanted.

I’m Going To Disneyland!
Two weeks after the writers strike ended, Disney called to tell me I made it into the Fellowship! I jumped up and down and squealed like a little girl, then my wife and parents joined in. We made such a racket that it freaked out my little girl and she started crying. My wife and I decided I’d move back to LA for the program, while she and my daughter stayed in Texas. Just before leaving, we bought our first house, which we could not have done without the Fellowship. Thanks, Walt!

Amelie and daddy in the backyard of her new home.

Walking On Sunshine
I’ve been in the program a month now, and I still have trouble believing this experience is real. I would say it’s a dream come true, but the fact that I don’t have my wife and daughter with me keeps the situation from being too perfect. Pretty darn close, though. The biggest media company in the world pays me to write full-time, while my girls are safe and happy in our new Texas home. Every time I drive onto the Disney Lot and walk to my office, I say in my head, “Thank you, God. Thank you, God” with every step I take.

On the lot with my spiffy new Disney ID card.

On the next Bangladoink: Episode II – A New Hope.

Comic Con Carne 07

2007-08-01T00:37:00.000-07:00

San Diego Comic Con was crammed full of goodness this year. Met so many people, saw so many spandex costumes pushed to their tensile limits by many a bulging gut.

But let us begin with the loot, with this little jewel I lovingly call L'Spidey.

A genuine 1979 Mego Spider-Man still in its original package. I snatched it from a toy bin seconds before another guy reached for it with shaking hands. Twenty clams seemed kind of pricey so I was going to let the guy have it, since he seemed to be hyperventilating and all. Then I noticed something odd - L'Homme Araignee? Holy nuts, it was a FRENCH Mego Spidey! The packaging even refers to "Thor the Mighty," "La Torche Humaine," and my favorite, "La Chose" (click back image to enlarge)!

I elbowed aside the mouth-breather and claimed my prize. Someone else getting their mitts on this treasure? I say thee nay!

This little baby is a Halo postcard signed by Brian Michael Bendis. It's actually not even from the Halo book he's working on, but he was a mensch and signed it anyway. I'm sure it had nothing to do with the fact that I towered at least a foot over him.

Which brings us to the pinnacle of my Con trip. I met Brian Michael Bendis! Not only that, but I gave him a copy of my book, "Wanted." To which he replied, "That's great, man, you're doing it, you're creating." Then he chucked it under the table, so, yeah, short-lived moment of glory. Even so, it was pretty damned cool to meet - and I don't think this is too much a stretch - our generation's equivalent of Stan Lee. I got New Avengers artist Leinil Yu to take our picture, but he had the camera set on video instead of picture, thus negating the stereotype about Asians and their innate skills with cameras.

And now more Comic-Con 07 highlights. Roll 'em!

Terry Moore? Hmm, not ringing any bells. What is it you've done, again?

Zander Cannon, you get to continue the seminal comic series "Top 10," thereby directly following in the footsteps of comics legend Alan Moore. Hope you remembered the antiperspirant.

Artist Adam Hughes gives his "sexy" look.

A wooden robot. Which makes him a... Eh, it's too easy.

Holy smokes! Kal El takes a nicotine break. Moments later he lit some other dude's cigarette. I believe this was the evil version from "Superman III," the one where he also gets hammered and then gets laid.

Artist Ethan Van Sciver demonstrates where his yellow power ring will snugly reside, once he figures out a way to instill fear via No. 2 pencil.

What little boys dream of when they first hit puberty.

2007's Gonna Punch You In the Face! Yeah!

2007-01-08T23:17:00.000-08:00

A belated happy holidays to all my friends and family. This last year was an exceedingly busy one. Throw in a two-hour commute each day, and it doesn't leave much time to blog. But rest assured, I got my eye on you.

Wishing you all the best in what surely will be the rockinest year ever.

And remember...

God loves you!

How to Stay Young

2006-08-30T23:33:00.000-07:00

Recently, a friend asked if kids these days still say, "He's the shit," to indicate someone is at the top of his game, firing on all cylinders, etc.

Such slang is sadly outdated and will instantly label you as a decrepit old goat and/or a Republican.

Point in fact, kids now say:

"He's the tits."

"He's the balls."

"He's pleasing to the palate."

"He's so crotch!"

Next time you want to impress someone under 30 with how hip you are, you may use any of these phrases with equal confidence. I tell you this because I care about you and don't want you to look foolish.

"Stay crotch, my friends."

Who's the Daddy?

2006-07-13T00:38:00.000-07:00

I am, that's who!

First my book comes out, then that same week my beautiful wife, Nina, tells me she's pregnant. We're going to have a little chunkster!

I'm so excited.

And scared.

And excited.

I'm a first-time daddy and a published author. God, I just want you to know all is forgiven for the hell I had to go through in high school. The horrible skin. The crippling insecurities. Getting rejected by anyone with ovaries... Seriously, God, every single girl? And that incident at prom with all the purses - was that really necessary?

I expect an exceedingly cute baby.

Yaaaaay chromosomes!

Global Domination: Step 1

2006-07-06T23:44:00.000-07:00

Sweet cracklin' oats, my book "Wanted" is finally out! The cover's a little, oh I dont know, electric neon orange? But aside from that minor quibble I couldn't be prouder.

Besides, orange is the color of courage. In fact, I believe "orange" is the Navajo word for "He who draws too much attention in the battlefield and gets many arrows lodged in his chest." Indian languages are remarkably efficient.

But back to my accomplishments. "Wanted" was originally a screenplay. Somehow, I took a left turn at Albuquerque and it ended up as a novel. My great hope is that I can option the movie rights and perhaps even get a crack at writing the first draft. That would be a tremendous professional and financial boost. I believe the Apache term for it is "ka-ching!"

Hands Off My Yabos

2006-05-18T00:08:00.000-07:00

My stomach's still bothering me, so I went in for a full physical.

I had a bunch of blood syphoned out of me. Then
they took my pee. And I got a little card on which to
smear...

Oh man, I don't even want to think about it.

My next appointment is for Friday. God only knows what
they'll make me do then. Couldn't be any worse than
the doctor telling me to drop my pants, after which he
knocked around my yabo-dabos while my wife was in the
examination room with us.

"Let me know if you feel any discomfort. Wait for it... wait for it..."

The Man With the Mustache Touched Me

2006-05-17T00:31:00.000-07:00

My doctor felt me up today, looking for a hernia.

The test was inconclusive, though I think I have a new best friend. (cough)

He wanted to do more tests, maybe even a prostate exam. But I told him to slow things down. The relationship was moving a little too fast for me.

So he poked my belly and told me I need to lose weight.

Men can be such bastards...

"This won't hurt a bit. But it will hurt your bits and pieces."

Die Filthy Robot!

2006-01-30T00:10:00.000-08:00

Happy birthday to me!

For my 33rd birthday my ~~girlfriend~~ wife got me the now-impotent head from a decapitated Cylon. How did she know? Sometimes I just have to stop and give thanks for my baby. She's one of the good ones.

We had Chinese food and tiramisu then celebrated my birthday, and our mutual (human!) love for each other, by subjugating the robot head.

Zombies--Pork--The Wonder Twins

2005-08-24T14:32:00.000-07:00

After applying for a job as a comedy writer on a children's show, they sent me this questionnaire as a sort of mini-interview. I haven't heard back from them.

Maybe it really was for the Power Rangers.

*** INTERVIEW ANSWERS ***

QUESTION #1: Why do you feel you'd be good at writing for young teenagers?

Because I had a miserable teen life, and I always wished I knew someone funny, cool, and clever who would make me laugh and feel better about myself. That’s exactly what I want to do for your viewers.

Besides, my fiancée designs clothing for tween girls, so I’m already immersed in a world of pink frilly things and embroidered denim. Wee.

QUESTION #2: What do you feel are the three funniest TV shows of all time?

“The Simpsons” -- Recently the show has gotten a bit dog-eared, but there’s no denying the impact this yellow family had on TV, comedy, and culture at large.

“Seinfeld.” -- I’ve seen every episode at least three times. And I still laugh out loud every time.

“Monty Python’s Flying Circus” – Bizarre, brilliant, revolutionary.

QUESTION #3: What are your favorite TV shows currently in production?

“Arrested Development” – They throw away more one-liners than most other shows can even come up with.

“Battlestar Galactica” – Not much comedy here, but the writing is spectacular.

“The Daily Show With John Stewart” – It makes me laugh, and tricks me into thinking I’m smarter than I really am.

“Justice League Unlimited” – The writing on this “kid’s show” puts most summer blockbusters to shame.

QUESTION #4: What do you feel are the three funniest movies of all time?

“Monty Python and the Holy Grail” – I am in awe.

“Sean of the Dead” – I told my girlfriend it was a romantic comedy to get her to watch it with me. She was pissed when she realized what it really was, but she ended up loving it anyway. (Which is oddly analogous to our own relationship.)

“ This Is Spinal Tap” – Because it goes to 11.

QUESTION #5: What were your three favorite childhood TV shows? (can be animated, or live-action)

“Superfriends” – The one without the annoying Wonder Twins or the Scooby-Doo knock-off.

“The Muppet Show” – So much fun with felt. Beaker was my favorite. “Mee mee mee”—BOOM!

“The Electric Company” – A live-action Spider-Man is totally teaching me to conjugate. And, holy crap, is that Morgan Freeman?

(In a battle to the death between the Wonder Twins and a bottle of arsenic, who would win? That's right--we all would.)

QUESTION #6: How do you feel about your writing being rewritten?

I love it!!!

QUESTION #7: Do you have an agent? If so, what agency?

No agent. I hear they eat children.

QUESTION #8: Are you a member of the WGA?

Not yet. But I drive by their office building and stare at it longingly.

QUESTION #9: What is the UNfunniest TV show you've ever seen that most people regarded as very funny?

“That ’70s Show” – The foreign kid talks funny. Kutcher’s an idiot. And the sister’s a slut. Cue laugh track!

QUESTION #10: How do you feel about working late nights and weekends?

I already stay up late writing on weekdays and weekends. It would be refreshing to actually get paid for it.

QUESTION #11: Have you seen any current TV shows(live-action, not animated) aimed at tweens that you felt were particularly funny and/or well written?

I like “Goosebumps” because they take the show seriously. You never get the feeling the creators thought, “Screw it, it’s just for kids. Throw in some fake blood and make it up as you go.” It’s not really a funny program, unless you find humor in a grown-up being creeped-out by a kid’s show.

QUESTION #12: Have you seen any current TV shows (live-action, not animated) aimed at tweens that you felt were terrible? If so, which ones?

“Mighty Morphin Power Anything”

("Purple Grope Ranger ready for action! ... Why won't the other Rangers hang out with me?)

QUESTION #13: What are your main goals as a writer?

To entertain, to make people laugh, to make them think when they let their guard down. I also wouldn’t mind actually making a living at it. Are people allergic to paying writers in this town?

QUESTION #14: What really pisses you off? Your pet peeves.

Why the hell are there no left-turn signals on L.A. street lights? I come from Dirtpie, Texas, where people ride horses to work, vote Republican, and think indoor plumbing is “magic.” And yet, THEY managed to figure out the technological complexities of a flashing green light that keeps you from risking your life every time you want to turn left across oncoming traffic.

QUESTION #15: Have you seen any kids' TV shows that made YOU laugh? If so, which?

“The Life and Times of Juniper Lee” is funny and well written. Good comedic timing and delivery on the jokes.

I like “Kim Possible” for the brother and his pet rat-thing.

Can you go wrong with a premise about a tough, smart girl fighting evil with an inept male sidekick tagging along for comic relief? No, you cannot. Thank you, Buffy.

QUESTION #16: You may have answered this already in your last email, but have you written for any TV shows in the past? If so, which one(s)?

I’ve been hired to write features and optioned a comedy spec. Otherwise, I wrote an original TV pilot, and I got laughed at because of it. Does that count?

QUESTION #17: What are your three favorite restaurants in Los Angeles?

El Coyote Mexican restaurant on Beverly. The carnitas dish melts in your mouth. Mmm, melting pork flesh…

Marmalade Café in the Grove. It’s kind of girly, but my fiancée likes it. As a struggling writer, I’ve put her through enough crap. I figure I can sit still for a while in a frou-frou joint for her.

New Delhi Palace Indian restaurant in Pasadena. When you die and go to heaven, there is a never-ending Indian buffet waiting for you. Even though, you know, Indians are Hindu and don’t believe in heaven.

QUESTION #18: Are you a Mac person or a Windows person?

I grew up on Windows. But I eventually evolved into a Mac person. Macs are just more elegant, user friendly, and attractive.

I *heart* Macs.

QUESTION #19: Who was the youngest man to hold the office of President of the United States?

At 42, Theodore Roosevelt was the youngest man to serve as president, when he assumed the post after William McKinley was assassinated. Though, JFK was the youngest man elected to the presidency at age 43.

Is this a show about teen presidents?

QUESTION #20: You're late for work on a day when it's very important to be on time. You get in your car and realize your gas gauge is almost on empty. If you don't stop for gas, you can make it to work on time. But you know there's about a 50/50 chance you'll run out of gas on the way. What would you do?

1. I’d jump in my girlfriend’s car (she always has a half tank, minimum), and leave her my car.

2. On the way to work, I’d call her on my cell and let her know what’s what. Then hang up before she starts yelling.

3. Arrive at work on time and get a raise. (That’s why I had to be on time, right? Evaluation day?) After work, I’d buy two dozen carnations, a bottle of wine, and a bucket of chocolate to make it up to my girl. That’s an actual bucket made out of chocolate, by the way. I know where they sell those.

QUESTION #21: What live-action (not cartoon) TV show aimed at tweens do you HOPE this job is for?

Well, I hope it’s not for any show with the word “Morphin” in it, considering my answer to question 12. That would be…awkward.

Other than that, it just so happens I LOVE your show: “The WB’s Teen Hunk Prezidentz!”

QUESTION #22: Why do you want this job?

Because the opportunity to make children laugh for a living is too good to pass up.
Because I want to buy my little mom a little house, and prove to her that her faith in me was not misguided.
Because otherwise I’ll have to go to law school.

So, hire me or there won’t be children’s laughter, my poor mother will have no home, and there will be one more lawyer in the world. And it’ll be ALL YOUR FAULT.

(*The getting rewritten thing, if your joke is funnier, would I still get credit for it?)

Bums of Hollywood Boulevard, I Salute You

2005-08-16T15:05:00.000-07:00

Lessons learned from people I come across as I walk to work on Hollywood Blvd. Part I...

TEACHER: Pimp Working the Coffee Shop

You are the man, with your high-tech phone earpiece, your snazzy suit, and your oversize sunglasses. You see a beautiful young lady and holla out to her “What’s your name, girl?” Then you lay a sloppy kiss on her hand as she looks on horrified and give her your business card, assuring her that, “Shoot, I can get you work, baby.” When she tries to back away, a creeped-out look on her face, you hold the door open for her. You’re so smooth, just like a real Hollywood agent. Except, for whores.

LESSON: Chivalry is back!

***

TEACHER: Girl Playing Guitar on the Sidewalk for Tips

As I walk past, I peer down at the guitar case in front of you to see how much money you’ve earned. When I look up smiling, you flip me the bird, because you’re punk like that. You don’t need my fucking money, man! Or maybe you’re asking me to pull your finger. I don’t know.

LESSON: Girls are mean.

Yes, that is a lovely shade of nail polish. Why do you ask?...Oh.

Turkey-Cock?

2005-07-28T16:15:00.000-07:00

Some interesting things I’ve learned recently:

1.) There is no cure for malaria.

Malaria, like true love, is for life. Symptoms include fever, chills, and weight loss, and can come back again and again throughout your life. A friend who caught the parasite from a mosquito bite in Africa is looking mighty gaunt recently and suspects he’s relapsing.

It’s only a matter of time before Hollywood starlets start intentionally injecting it into themselves, much as they do with Botox, which is derived from a POISON used in biological warfare.

An embarrassing aside: For some reason, I always associated malaria with diarrhea.

“Lyndsay Lohan? Yeah, I’m her personal trainer.”

2.) Turkey-Cock

This term caught my eye while looking something up in the dictionary. According to Webster’s, it’s either a male turkey, or a strutting pompous person.

I must admit, that’s not at all where I thought it was going. Huh.

"Quit ogling my barrel. And keep your filthy thoughts to yourself”

3.) Cod sperm—you’re soaking in it…

“Maritex, among the world's largest producers of cod liver oil, said it aimed to produce seven tons of processed cod sperm…for the international makeup market.”

Something in the fish semen helps keep skin taut and young. Allegedly.

It’s also used in chocolate, medicines, and breast milk substitutes.

Frank Hansen, a biotech engineer at Maritex, claims, “It neither smells nor tastes of anything,”

Uh-huh, you know how long men have been trying that line? It never works.

A good Samaritan volunteers his services.

Ah, Hell, Who Went And Spilled Wisdom All Over My Blog?!

2005-07-25T16:26:00.000-07:00

I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make the life I deserve the life I make I deserve the life I make the life I...

Next time, clean up after yourself. Fatty.

You Died For Nothing, Stupid Bee!

2005-07-21T16:03:00.000-07:00

I WAS ATTACKED BE A KILLER BEE!

I assume it was a killer bee because it stung me for no reason whatsoever. I go to open the door to my office building and—KA-STING!—it gets me right in the palm of my right hand. I never even saw the little bitch come at me. (Bees are girls, right? I can call them bitches?)

Hey, you furry fucking Hollywood bee, I didn’t attack your beehive, did I? No I did not.

I didn’t walk up to you and knock the pollen out of your filthy bee mouth, did I?

Last I checked, there are no flower fields on Hollywood Blvd., so it’s not like I’m all up in your place of employment making your life that much harder. Like you did to me!

Goddamn that pisses me off—unprovoked bee assault!

I know what you were thinking, bee, “If he’s allergic to beestings, his ass is mine. At the very least I’ll take out his writing hand. Fuck’s sake, I am the evil incarnate of the insect world. If I was a boy bee, I would have an erection, I’m so hot for evil, yeah, yeah, yeah! I’m going in!”

But guess what, bee? My hand’s not swelling up. That’s right, I’m not allergic to bee stings you fat little Nazi honey-sucker.

I LIVE!

And now, in the final, agonizing moments of your short, destructive life, take this thought with you as your cross over into the Great Unknown: You failed, and your death meant nothing.

Suck it, bee.

(Above) Source of the Holocaust.

I Would So TOTALLY Do Me

2005-07-19T15:10:00.000-07:00

Well, I just had a pleasant conversation with the graphic designer doing the cover for my novel. She’s going to make it hip, cool, and in-your-face, which, it just so happens, is exactly where you want a book, up around the reader’s face area.

Now, I’m no Stephen King, I’m still new to the world of novel authorship, but if you get a cover, that usually means it’s a real book, right?

I also just heard from a director for whom I wrote a low-budget horror-action script. He’s going to bump it up from a $90,000 direct-to-DVD movie to a $3 million feature I could actually earn enough money from to buy my mother a house.

On a more nerdy tip, there’s the video game I’m writing and co-developing with my brother the Software Engineer. He just learned three different computer languages in less than three months; now machines do as his voice commands, computers levitate around his head, and his eyes glow an eerie green after the sun goes down.

And we always thought he was the slow one.

To recap:

(1) A book deal

(2) A movie deal

(3) A cyborg brother

All that while working a full-time day job. If I was an agent/manager, I would be all over me. If only because I used the phrase “on a more nerdy tip” correctly in a sentence.

Lesbians soothe my soul

2005-07-15T23:30:00.000-07:00

My writing schedule

8 a.m. – Wake up. Calculate, can I sleep another 30 minutes and still get to work on time? Fall asleep sitting on edge of bed as I stare at my toes.

8:45 a.m. – Wake up again. Fuck, I’m late!

9 a.m. – Commute to Hollywood; hate on all drivers around me. “Yes, by all means, sir, cut me off, and by the way, fuck you.”

10 a.m. – Arrive at gay publication, where I’m the only straight editor.

10:30- noon – Edit book of gay porn. Is blow job one word or two? Check Stylebook. Ah, it’s two.

11 a.m. – How about ~~buttcheek~~? ~~Butt cheéque~~? Butt cheek! Thanks, Stylebook.

11:45 a.m. – Teabagging? What the hell does that mean, Stylebook…?

Oh.

11:46 a.m. – Feel a sliver of my soul slip away.

12:30 p.m. – Eat lunch at my cubicle while I read screenwriters’ blogs where they complain about things like, “Producers are such assholes. They don’t get my vision. Should I accept an assignment even if I just don’t ‘feel’ it?”

12:31 p.m. – What…? What? No, you shouldn’t accept it. In fact, you should quit, leave the screenwriting profession right now. Jesus, God, Jesus, there were times I could barely pay my rent, and you’re turning down screenwriting work, sweet gentle Christ, who do I have to blow in this town to get a fucking major agent or manager or even an assistant’s cousin’s sister’s dog-walker to read my movie scripts!?!

Sorry about the "blow" comment—I meant “fellate.” I should know better.

12:32 p.m. – Another sliver of my soul slips away.

2:30 p.m. – Sneak away to the corner coffee shop. WRITE NONSTOP.

3 p.m. – Miss my family back in Texas. My niece must be so big now. Another sliver—DON’T THINK, WRITE LIKE YOUR LIFE DENPENDS ON IT.

4 p.m. – Get new book assigned to edit: “Ultimate Lesbian Sex Stories Involving Honey, Rope, And Low-Hanging Chandeliers, Vol. 2” Feel my soul healing just a tad. Yay lesbians!

6 p.m. – Commute home. “Yes, Lady-Doing-45mph-In-The-Fast-Lane, that is my middle finger being flipped at you. You may sit on it and rotate, or not, as you prefer.”

7 p.m. – Grab can of soup to eat. Look for can-opener. Fail to find one. Gnaw on can. Pound can on countertop. Attempt to open can with powers of mind. Put can back in pantry. Eat cheese.

8:17 p.m. – Don’t watch TV. Don’t watch TV. Don’t watch TV.

9 p.m. – OK, that’s enough TV.

9:20 p.m.- Seriously, that’s enough.

9:35 p.m. – Turn it off! I should be writing. Wait, so there are actually people TURNING DOWN writing jobs? The fuck?!?

9:40 p.m.- Read Why Television Sucks blog. Ha! Funny Lesbian TV Lady. Feel more of my soul come back. Yay lesbians!

9:45 p.m. – WRITE

10 p.m. – Still WRITING

11:30 p.m. – So tired…DON”T STOP.

1:26 a.m. – Eyes blurry…write

1:45 a.m. – Fingers cramping…wrt

2 .m. – Room getting draker… wrrt

red 53 a.m. lesbianz yay weeeeee…

Narcoleptic Aztecs

2005-07-13T01:10:00.000-07:00

I recently found out why my Aztec Indian ancestors lost to my Spanish ancestors.

Recently discovered anthropological illustrations (on velvet, oddly enough) clearly show the two major problems the proud Aztecs faced. And they weren't the superior weapons and diseases carried by the Spanish, as I was always taught in school.

1. The women were narcoleptic. Most of the ancient velvet drawings show the women asleep on the ground or in the arms of a warrior, who was then unable to fight off the invading Christian hordes.

2. The men couldn't aim straight. They would shoot arrows into the sky and not at the Spaniards directly in front of them.

And so their mighty empire fell.

"Seriously, woman, third time this week. Hey, what are all those white guys doing with my stuff?"

Wake up! Shoot straight! Wake up! Shoot straight!

Praper grammr is four pooseiss

2005-07-07T13:16:00.000-07:00

Hmm, by the looks of the meager comments on these many posts over which I have sweated (swat, if you will), not many folks stop by to enjoy their freshly squeezed Bangladoink.

Perhaps a catchy slogan would help.

1. Bangladoink: For people with penises. Or without.

2. ~~Just do it.~~
~~Might want to think about it.~~
~~Is that really the best course of action?~~
~~It can probably wait till tomorrow.~~
Aw, fuck it.

3. Bangladoink: It’s what’s for brunch.

4. Bangladoink: No lubrication required.

5. Bangladoink: Some swelling may occur.

6. Bangladoink über alles!

7. Get your 20-foot-high breasts here.

8. Bekaus praper grammr is four pooseiss

9. STD-free since ’73.

10. Melts in your mouth, not in your hand… So, keep it in your mouth.

*And a freebie for the Diary Industry—“Milk: The other white drink.”

Cops & Hoochies: A haiku

2005-06-28T18:08:00.000-07:00

Cops and hoochies, yo

What brings them all out tonight?

BET Awards

The awesome power of nature. And breasts.

2005-06-28T16:00:00.000-07:00

You: Tom, where have you been? It’s been so long since you updated this blogamawhozit.

Tom: There was an earthquake! It shook my office building. Nobody else reacted, they just kept working in their cubicles, like tiny lemmings typing away, ignorant of the certain doom awaiting them. The fools!

You: Oh, no! What did you do, dive under your desk for safety?

Tom: No, I ran immediately to the nearest glass window. There, I saw a building shaking. Not just any building, mind you. It had a 20-foot-tall picture of a bikini girl rocking an iPod. It was a silhouette, but for some reason you could see her bikini top in color.

And the quake made her jiggle.

You: Idiot. You ran to a glass window during an earthquake?

(pause)

You: Wait, so these were 20-foot-tall boobs?

Tom: And wiggling.

You: Are you dicking with me?

Tom: I am not.

You: Wow.

Tom: I know.

You: I had a dream like that once.

Tom: Awesome.

(pause)

You: What where we talking about?

Tom: I, uh, I don’t remember. Boobs?

Imagine her 20-feet-tall and wiggling, as your life flashes before your eyes.

Real men punch raw meats

2005-06-15T15:06:00.000-07:00

~~Looking for an excuse to not write my novel~~ Trolling through a comics blog, I came across a prompt asking, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

Here’s what I came up with:

“That one guy is wearing a pink jacket while at the same time sporting very butch facial hair. Totally ill-matched.

And that Colin Powell clone in back seems rather impressed with Mr. Pink's delts, which is not so much wrong as it is bad timing. Leave it for the barracks, soldier, and don't ask, don't tell!

Finally, is that a woman in the background, or a 13-year-old boy?”

Here’s the answer, according to the blog:

“Such yellow stripes on the ends of sleeves are Navy insignia, not Army. (Though it looks to me like he's alternating between Admiral and Vice Admiral.)

And the general should be wearing some stars, probably four, on each shoulder”

So, the real answer concerns proper military insignia, meanwhile I’m going on about pink jackets and well-developed delts…

Jeez, I gotta start watching sports, eating red meat, punching stuff—something!

Maybe if I watch ESPN while hitting a side of raw beef, then CHEW on the bloody carcass during commercial breaks, that’ll get the testosterone pumping again.

(But, honestly, Mr. Pink’s hair is right out of 1985. Hello, Teen Wolf!)

Emmanuelle vs. Dracula

2005-06-10T15:26:00.000-07:00

I found myself flip-flip-flipping through cable last night, trying to find a reason NOT to get rid of premium channels. I pay an extra $30 for “Uptown Girls”? Come on!

Suddenly a movie title stopped me dead: “Emmanuelle vs. Dracula”

(Grin.)

No. Way.

Brilliant! Of course, I had to see what it is. It’s genius, really—the combination of the prototypical slutty Euro-chick with the dark lord of sexuality and violence himself. That right there is chocolate in your peanut butter, ladies and gentlemen.

Unfortunately, five minutes in, it was evident the only good part of this movie is the title. Emmanuelle is dumb as lint and can barely string together a sentence in English. And Dracula is a puffy-faced creep who crashes a bachelorette party. Never knew the Count was such a… loser.

Still, what an awesome title.

I need something like that for my book. Something that’ll scream to people, “Hey, baby, open me up for a good time.” Yet Classy.

Some rejected titles so far:

1. The Candy-Coated Cobra (It makes sense in context if you read the book.)

2. Blow Me Vigorously (No context here. It’s pretty much what you think it is.)

3. Jurassic Park II by Michael Chricton (Really had my heart set on this one.)

4. Hot Lesbian Vampires (Sadly, my story features no vampires, lesbian or otherwise. Besides, the publisher already has a book with a similar title.)

5. Girls, Guns, and Germs (Or GGG, pronounced “guh guh guh.”)

"Bleh. My veekness is garlic. And coherent plotlines. Bleh.

Life is a roller coaster, and then you puke

2005-06-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

I just signed my first book deal, for a novelization of one of my film scripts.

That blows my mind twelve ways to Friday. I came out here to write movies and I end up an author. Is that a step up, or down?

Everyone’s ecstatic, family, friends, the lot. I should be over the moon with joy.

And yet, lately I feel like I’m under a rock.

I miss my family in Texas.

I miss my friends.

Most of all, I miss my Katten.

Only now has this city begun to offer up a glimmer of anything positive. But it’s already taken so much. I hope it doesn’t cost me the most important person in my life.

Jeez, I’m bringing myself down. Better to end on a high note.

What would happen if an Amish person had Tourette’s syndrome? They wouldn’t know any good cuss words. What would they blurt out inappropriately?

Churning butter by hand: “My, what a lovely day—Betty Crocker biscuits! Black and Decker! Electricity!—we’re having.”

Riding in a horse buggy: “Hee-ya there, horse. Get a move on—Hummer! Toyota Tundra! Internal combustion! Internal combustion! Internal combustion!—Ah, behold the flowers in the field. Truly God is great… Hummer!”

Questioning their lot in life: “God, why have you afflicted me with these uncontrollable urges. Do I not follow the elders’ teachings? Do I not adhere to the one true way?—Hindus! Buddhism! Zen! Zen? Zen… Must…stop… blurting such obscenities… Pope! Pope! Popety Popety Pope!"

Kicking Evil’s nuts throughout history, or Greetings from the future!

2005-05-16T16:08:00.000-07:00

The trouble with time travel is that it’s so constraining. You can’t do anything fun when you go back, or it screws up the future.

“Yikes, stepped on a butterfly in the Mesozoic. Oh, no, now Richard Simmons is king of Idaho. And a woman.”

Besides, time travelers only ever want to go back and meet the same four people over and over:

(1) Jesus

(2) Einstein

(3) Tarzan

(4) Your mother (Oh, snap!)

If I had a time machine, I would go back to my elementary school in 1980. Back when as a little fourth-grader I wandered the playground alone and friendless. Until some punk fifth-graders snuck up behind me and slugged me in the stomach.

FOR NO REASON.

I crawled into a tube in the playground and wheezed for 10 minutes till I caught my breath, while my 7-year-old mind tried to make sense of the cold, heartless universe, and then burned with a rage that would be my intimate companion for years to come.

“But, Vampos,” you say, “you wouldn’t go back in time just to beat up little kids, would you?”

Uhm…

Not at all, I would merely rattle them around till they told me their names. Then I’d go forward in time till they were teenagers. I’d walk up to them, a complete stranger, and say “Greetings from the future!”

And I’d kick them in the nuts.

No temporal paradox to deal with, no affecting the course of history. Just a good swift kick to the pebbles and I’m gone. And that’s just the beginning:

Mussolini—Atsa crunchy meatballs!

Stalin—Nuts to you, comrade!

Hitler—A goose-step to the Gerbils!

The Wonder Twins—Form of: an icicle (to your groin!) Shape of: an antelope (on your crotch!)

Maybe I can’t change history. Maybe these bastards would still do their evil deeds, but at least all these guys would spend their lives in a constant panic, wondering if their jewels are getting new cracks that day from the mystery nut-kicker.

For wherever evil lurks, it better wear a cup.

Not screwing the poolboy

2005-05-13T00:07:00.000-07:00

Man, I feel frustrated and unfulfilled.

Sort of like the Desperate Housewives.

Except a guy.

And single.

And not screwing the poolboy.

Whatever that is, sister, that's what I got.

Welcome to L.A. Fuck you!

2005-05-10T15:23:00.000-07:00

When some people first move to Los Angeles, they are greeted by a bright sun shining down warm comfort upon them and a gentle breeze that whispers, "Come hither, traveler, for this is the land of dreams become manifest."

But when my girlfriend and I moved here last year, all we got was a hearty "Fuck you." We didn't see the sun for months (June gloom? The hell is that?). And we lived in a crappy Koreatown neighborhood where there was a real-live police raid on the crack house across the street (every night an episode of "Cops"!).

Those were hard times.

One day, while reading through the want ads and crying, I saw this: "Help an infertile family. We'll pay $5,000 for your eggs." My girl couldn't stand the thought of one of her "babies" being out there and not being part of its life. But me... Well, that was the first time I ever wished I had ovaries.

One day we went to Ralph's on 3rd and La Brea, where all the skinny girls with cell phones shop for tofu. In line, a lady in an expensive suit (probably an agent or producer) bitched out the cashier over some stupid thing and stormed out.

Later, we were walking through the parking lot, when an SUV the size of a battleship roared up behind us and almost squashed my girlfriend. She barely leapt out of the way in time. I saw the psycho lady snarling from the driver's seat as the car sped away.

My girl, homesick and stressed out, broke down in tears. First we move 1,000 miles from home, then we have to live in a neighborhood where even the rats carry guns, and now someone nearly ran her down! Truly, this city hated us.

I tried my best to comfort her in our car, wondering all the while If I'd made the biggest mistake of my life moving us out here. Then I noticed we had too many grocery bags.

"What's with all the fancy sausage and cheese?" I asked, rummaging in a bag.

"What cheese?" she asked through sobs.

There was Irish cheese and Danish cheese and French cheese (stinky!). There were crispy exotic vegetables like leeks. And fancy dancy crackers made for caviar. I even found succulent Italian sausages, thick as Camryn Manheim's haunches.

"Oh, my God, these aren't our groceries," my girlfriend said.

"Then whose...?"

The psycho in the SUV, she stormed off without her groceries and the cashier gave them to us.

My baby laughed through the tears, and that night we feasted like Hollywood agents at a cocktail party.

The moral of the story? Yes, L.A. will try to crush you under it's wheels, but every now and then it throws cheese and crackers your way.

And don't piss off cashiers.

"Oops, I've lost control of my bowels..."

2005-05-06T15:46:00.000-07:00

Jack Valenti, the former head of the Motion Picture Association of America, used to chase after people who pirated movies and sold them for $5 on streetcorners. Then he would rip out their throats with special James Bond villian-like mettalic jaws he kept in an office drawer for just such occasions. Allegedly.

Turns out Jack has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame (I didn't realize they gave those out for throat-ripping). I know this because as I was walking along one day, a horrible stench assaulted me. Up ahead there was some sort of black crap all over a section of the sidewalk. As I got closer I realized it was...actual crap. Smeared all over Jack Valenti's star.

And this wasn't one of those accidental "Oops, I've lost control of my bowels as I walked down the street" situations. You could tell these feces were rubbed in there with passion:

"How do you like that, Jack Valenti? Do you enjoy shit smeared all over your goood name? What's that? You don't enjoy it at all? Ah-ha! That is precisely the point, Jack Valenti! How ironic..."

And the best part? Even with the stink and mystery globs all over the star, the tourists kept taking pictures of it as they walked by.

"Oh, look Janice, Jack Valenti. Wasn't he in Finding Nemo? ...Why does it smell like your brother Ted, the drunk? Hey, get down next to it, so I can get a picture."

That's how you can tell the tourists on Hollywood Blvd, they're always looking down (unlike New York, where they're always looking up). I've even seen them kiss Brad Pitt's star. You kind of want to warn them not to, considering. Yeah, you kind of want to. But then, you don't.

How ironic...

Wanted: Friend with penis

2005-05-05T14:43:00.000-07:00

I've been in this city for a year and some change now, and Lord am I lonely. There is my girlfriend, the love of my life and best friend. But she doesn't have, well, a penis.

I feel she just can't get into the things I love. She's never cared for comic books, which were my only friends in high school and taught me everything I know about fighting evil. And the only videogames she likes have Italian midgets running around bouncing off turtles. Nuts to that, I want to shoot something's head off!

I need guy friends. I need to hang out with someone who will go to comic shops with me, who will see the latest wire-fu Hong Kong flick with me, who I can throw around script ideas with. Maybe we can even sit around and NOT talk about feelings.

In short, I want to play around with someone who has a dick.

Now, I happen to be the only straight guy in my office, so I can't really go up to co-workers and say, "Hey, you have a dick, right? You want to go do something fun?"

That's how misunderstandings happen.

The other night I met John Gulager, the latest director/punching bag on Project Greenlight. He was friendly, chatty, and surrounded by people who wanted to talk to him. Everyone from lowly casting directors to Miramax execs shit on this poor guy on a weekly basis. On national TV!

And he has more friends than me...

Uh-oh, a rather strange man dressed like a pimp just sat at the table next to me in the coffee shop. He's dancing in his chair and making faces. A 1970s funk tune plays from overhead. He just removed his bright purple coat. The fuzzy purple hat stays on. I can see out the corner of my eye, he keeps looking over at me.

I...I think he wants to make eye contact. I think he wants to talk to me. Now he's shaking his ass on the seat and trying to sing along.

You know what? On second thought, I don't need to make new friends. I'm good, thanks.

Never let them see you staring at their tits

2005-05-04T15:29:00.000-07:00

Paying hundreds of dollars to pitch your "brilliant" script to studio "people" has become quite the trend amongst those of us desperate to break into Hollywood.

When I was a Texas yokel, I flew in to L.A. for a combination pitchfest/screenwriters conference. Including travel, lodging, and fees, I blew about a grand on my "big chance." While here, I spent 12 hours (yes, 12 hours!) waiting in line to buy tickets for the privilege to pitch. This is how it went.

1. One exec refused to let anyone shake his hand or otherwise make physical contact with him. I noticed as I pitched him, he slowly leaned back, getting farther and farther away. He may even have been holding his breath. (Filthy, filthy screenwriters!) Oddly enough, he requested my script.

2. Two of the pitchees looked right out of high school, with bored expressions and baseball caps boldly announcing they worked for a major studio. I can only surmise they were assistants forced to attend the fest by their bosses. "Chad and Wendy," as I came to think of them, sighed loudly and looked at their watches throughout my pitch. No request from them.

3. In contrast, one lady from Fox was profusely perky and supportive of every idea I flung at her. I could have pitched a snuff film and she would say, Nice job! Great use of sex and violence! Keep at it! It could also be that Fox simply has profoundly lower standards. Got a request from her.

4. Two scruffy-looking producers didnt so much request scripts as write on note cards while people pitched, then separating them into different piles (Fabulous vs. Crapulous? Steal vs. Re-imagine"?). No request.

5. A husband and wife team of managers proved the most daunting to pitch to, as the wife was disproportionately well-endowed and wore a low-cut shirt that left little more than areola-coloring to the imagination. And she insisted on LEANING OVER THE TABLE the whole time I stammered through my pitch. She just grinned the whole time, almost daring me to look. But, Jesus, her husband was right next to her! (Mustmaintaineye contact.) Never have my eye muscles strained as they did that day, performing all sorts of subtle ocular acrobatics. Ill leave it to the reader to determine whether I looked or not, though I will say, they did not request my script.

Its now several years later and nothing came of any of those requests. Ive gotten much further through even half-assed attempts at networking while in L.A.

My advice? Youre better off taking a producer's assistant to lunch and schmoozing her. And try not to stare at her tits.