Christmas Treats in Hell

Ten treats we never want to see:

1. Roast Jerky
2. Figgy Jell-o
3. Garlic Canes
4. Hot Buttered Sardines
5. Gingerbread Yes Men
6. Pickle Punch
7. Baked Bean Ambrosia
8. Mountain Oyster Marzipan
9. Chocolate-Covered Pigs Knuckles
10. Peppermint Haggis

FORAC: Found Your Letter To Santa

I got to work this afternoon and this e-mail was in my in-box, addressed to the collective:


A letter to addressed Santa in a green envelope with beautiful red crayon printing and a red crayon star..(at least I think it’s a star) has been found and turned into me. .
If it is yours or if you were entrusted with delivering it to Santa..you can pick it up from my desk.
Thanks
Laura

The Actress, The Doctor, and The Porn King

The Real Miss America

Yeah, But Two THOUSAND???

A couple days ago, I woke up to find nine hundred e-mails in my in box.

Yes.

Nine hundred.

There were five or six different subject lines, but each e-mail appeared to come from a separate e-mail address, and each e-mail address appeared to be associated with a fictitious name. Now, I did not open any, because I practice computer prophylaxis (I am careful about virii), but there they were. In my spam box.

When I got home from work, there were another eight hundred and fifty. Same half-dozen subject lines. By the end of the evening, I'd received another three hundred or so.

This is not the first time this has happened. A few weeks ago, I got two thousand e-mails a day for a period of three days. I am grateful for my spam box.

I suspect that the tactic is intended to catch those who will open JUST ONE of the e-mails to see why there are so many. But damn! Two thousand e-mails?

Made my incoming e-mail look like a Monty Python sketch: Spam, spam, spam, spam, e-mail from my dad, and spam. SPAMMITY SPAM, WONDERFUL SPAM!

Bloody Vikings.

Christmas Is Coming, The Geek Is Getting Fat...

The Internet is a thing of beauty.

Today, I discovered a website that will more than meet all my Christmas shopping needs, especially since I will be spending my tenth holiday season snorking hard cider and spiked egg nog as a singleton.

Here are some of the things my loved ones can look forward to finding under the tree this year:

The USB-powered hamster wheel is pictured above, but here is the "Cat's Arse Pencil Sharpener":

There is the desk-sized, USB-powered refrigerator:


And of course, the perfect gift for the geek who has everything, a USB-powered humping dog:



What a wonderful time of the year!

Picket Fences

The writer's strike presents me with an odd quandary: Do I continue to try to sell my script, or wait until after the strike is over?

For those of you who may not be familiar with the reasons behind the writer's strike, a little background: The Writer's Guild of America (WGA) is striking against the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers (AMPTP), mostly over the amount they get paid for the distribution of their work via the Internet. Production companies, networks, and studios save up-front costs by paying "residuals", which are a percentage of the per-unit sale price of a movie or television show. Residuals are a significant part of the overall compensation writers earn for their work.

How much? Let's look at one film, Reign Over Me, which starred Don Cheadle and Adam Sandler. It's a good choice because it got good reviews, but wasn't a big box-office smash (it virtually disappeared from theatres in a month), having cost $20 million to make and earning around $21 million. For the week ending October 28th, that little film sold 55,872 copies on DVD, earning roughly $1.1 million. At the current rate of compensation, the writer received a residual check in the amount of $3,350.64, minus taxes.

One week.

This is not chump change.

Now, back in 1985, when VHS was new, the AMPTP put forth the position that the consumer market was changing and that the technology had not been proven, so they negotiated with the WGA to set a reduced percentage for residuals on the then-new technology, with the understanding that if it proved itself, the residuals would increase again. They reneged.

They did the same thing with DVDs, again claiming unproven marketability for new technology.

Incidentally, under the rate structure that existed before VHS, the screenwriter for Reign Over Me would have earned $16,753.22 that same week.

What's happening now is that new technology is reshaping the marketplace once again, and the AMPTP wants to cut the writers out of residuals entirely for this new technology. Internet streaming and downloads, cell phone downloads, things we didn't see as marketable three years ago are becoming commonplace. Miss your favorite TV show? Go to ABC.com and watch it! you'll be shown commercials, which the network is being paid for... But the writers of the show are not getting their residuals for the rebroadcast of the show. The AMPTP insists that the technology isn't yet proven to be marketable, but there it is, and the parallels with the introduction of VHS and DVD are clear.

Now, I'm not one to say that restitution should be made for the percentages the WGA negotiated away in the past, and in any case, that's not what they're asking for. They want in on the new technology because they wisely see the market headed in that direction, and they want a raise.

It's not an unfair position.

How does this relate to me?

The WGA's success or failure will undoubtedly affect the amount I get paid for my work as a writer.

Now, I am not a union guy. Far from it. But in this case, I agree with the WGA. Not because it will affect my paycheck, but because I sincerely believe they're right.

But will I be able to resist if someone offers me a quarter of a million dollars for my screenplay?

I don't know. I honestly don't know.

It would sure be nice to get the opportunity to find out, though.

Blowing Away Clouds Of Doubt

Aeons ago, before the fires, I wrote this post about pitching my screenplay. That was an exciting afternoon.

Not nearly as exciting as this one turned out to be.

I should begin by saying that I spent that week and a half working on what I thought would be a very good pitch. I read a book on selling your story in a minute. I wrote and rewrote my pitch, refining it until everyone I gave it to (read as: "subjected to it") responded with an honest, "Wow, I'd love to see that movie."

And then I got to the Screenwriting Expo and took a seminar on pitches. Round out my education, I thought. Oh, no...the seminar contradicted everything in the book.

Shit.

Okay, I'll take another seminar on pitching. Same thing.

Another seminar, another writer who disagrees with the book I read.

It turns out that sixty seconds is too long a pitch.

So last night, I sat down and rewrote my pitch from scratch, and by the time I went to bed, I still hadn't gotten it to the point of wow-I-would-love-to-see-that-movie. It didn't pop.

At 4 am, I woke up with the solution: There's a tragedy in the story... That's my pop.

So, here's how it goes:

Everything In Between is a multi-plot drama about how we all experience love the same way. When the lives of four very different couples cross at a gay wedding, they must face a tragedy that will ultimately change each of them -- for the better.

Spoken aloud, slowly and clearly, it takes about 20 seconds.

"I get it! It's Crash, with love! I love it!" said one agency executive. Exactly. I'm going to send her a thank you note.

A drama is a hard sell. Look at the list of movies at your local theater... It's late in the year, so the awards season has begun, but that is the only explanation for movies like Michael Clayton and Things We Lost In The Fire. What's an easy sell? Horror. R-rated comedies. Male-driven romcoms. Seriously, Saw VI is actually being written. I'm absolutely certain that I don't want to know what body parts you can cut off after the fifth vivisected appendage. I mean, really, once you've cut off all four limbs, how much thrill can be left? Here's an idea for the tagline for Saw V: "You're going to need help for this one."

I am not going to say what responses I got or from whom; I'll just say that I did better than I hoped.

Apparently, I've got game.

The Fat Lady Ain't Even On Stage, But...

I'm proud of my neighbors here.

San Diego claims to be "America's Finest City". If you live anywhere else and take pride in where you live, you might look at that as mere bravado.

I don't.

I called my best friend Bear when I saw his house was surrounded by the mandatory evacuation areas, and he answered his cell phone from his friend's front lawn, miles from his own house. His friend is out of town, but the friend's house is located closer to the Harris Fire, so Bear was up there to break in and get the guy's belongings out if the fire got too close. Just hanging out on the front lawn with a hose.

Thousands of people spent last night at Qualcom Stadium, where there is no shortage of food, water, and bedding being brought in by voluntary donation. In fact, several local bands set up there and kept folks entertained, while dozens of area massage therapists offered free massage to evacuees. The atmosphere there has been described as "festive" by the press, and though people are worried about their homes, they're calm and well-behaved.

A local company which makes respirators and face masks donated 30,000 masks to the Office of Emergency Services, which will allow responders to work more comfortably in the hardest-hit areas, and provide an opportunity for damage assessment teams to go in earlier.

As of noon today, 513,000 people had been evacuated from their homes... Roughly one in twelve San Diegans... And there have been exactly zero reports of looting or mayhem. Zero.

We still have several days of fire and destruction ahead of us, but right now? Right now, I'm so proud of my neighbors.

This truly is America's Finest City.

Ring of Fire

There is one pair of numbers that I think illustrates just how scary these last two days have been: Between 6 pm and 10 pm last night, the county estimate of the size of the Witch Creek fire went from 20,000 acres to 145, 000 acres.

At the moment, the only way out of San Diego is to the east, via the I-8. Or, by air.

My eyes haven't stopped watering since Sunday.

145,000 acres. And that's just one fire.

Depending on where you get your information, there are between 5 and 7 fires burning, and the city of San Diego is very much surrounded.

How badly stressed is our emergency services system? For most of the day yesterday, there was only one fire engine for the entire city of San Diego.

The scariest thing about all this is that friends and loved ones are in those areas evacuated, and I've lost contact with them. I called Sihaya yesterday and got her machine. If she went to work yesterday, then she's clear of the fires, but her cats are not. I called this morning again, and got her machine again, so her house is still standing, at least. For now.

Because bloggers are fond of lists, here are a few things I'm tired of:

1. Itchy, burning eyes.
2. TV journalists comparing burned neighborhoods to "a war zone".
3. Network television preempting local coverage
4. Network television's entertainment spin on our losses
5. The phrase, "the (absolute) worst that could happen"
6. The growing sense of helplessness
7. Video of fires and firefighting efforts that are so tight they don't show anything
8. Video of fires and firefighting efforts when what we need are maps
9. Matt Lauer
10. Smoke

Half An Hour's Jubilation Before The Doubt Rolls In

I was finally able to choose which companies I'll pitch to next week. It's not an unexciting list, including Brillstein Entertainment Partners, Creative Artists Agency, and Kennedy/Marshall.

For those of you who may not know, Brillstein represents people like Brad Pitt, Jennifer Aniston, Courtney Cox, and a host of others. There are some great screenwriters at Brillstein.

Creative Artists Agency is huge. The in-house networking that could happen here would almost certainly get my picture made.

Kennedy/Marshall. I guarantee you have seen a film produced by Kathleen Kennedy and Frank Marshall, because basically, if you've seen a Stephen Spielberg film since E.T.: The Extra Terrestrial, you've seen one of theirs. These are the people who produced Poltergeist, Indiana Jones, Back To The Future, The Color Purple, Jurrasic Park, Schindler's List, and The Sixth Sense.

You might, if you look with me towards the horizon, see the dark clouds of doubt roll in.

I am going to pitch to Kennedy/Marshall.

Next Saturday, I am going to pitch to Kennedy/Marshall.

I may not sleep for a week and a half.

Moving Ahead

As I sit down to write this, I'm struck by the feeling that posting about the process of writing and moving ahead with my screenplay just isn't all that compelling. Would it help if I mention that I'm considering getting new living room furniture?

I didn't think so.

On Friday, I registered my screenplay with the Writer's Guild. This was a big step, as it meant my screenplay was actually finished.

Or so I thought.

Last week, I discovered that there is a San Diego Screenwriters Meetup group. (Meetup.com is a great idea, by the way.) Last night, I went to my first meeting, and brought my screenplay. I'd printed out four copies of the first ten pages in case they were open to reading it, but I went without expectation. They turned out to be an interesting group, struggling with some of the same things I struggled with. They were a bit skeptical when I said I'd written my way from outline to completed rough draft in just 3 weeks, but they were hooked by my pitch. (I use Michael Hauge's idea of how to sell the story: instead of telling the story, I start with how I got the idea for the story, then move on to give a little teaser that describes the style of the story.) I got the question I wanted: "So, what happens?" They then went on to shred my first ten pages, nitpicking it to smithereens. Yes, smithereens.

I am learning that Improv training helps when you're presenting your writing to strangers. When someone offers a suggestion, it helps to embrace the suggestion, something that does not come naturally for a writer. (We tend to think, "Well, that's your opinion, but since I wrote it, might I suggest a few places where you can put your notes?")

I am also learning that when people give notes, there is a sort of wheat-from-chaff processing that's required. You can almost always get one really good kernal of a note from the deluge of it-would-be-better-ifs and I-would-have-done-it-this-ways. Last night, I got one of those.

It was a "crap! you're right!" kind of moment.

All of this leads, of course, to the conclusion that a screenplay is never actually finished.

As a case in point, Paul Haggis (Oscar-winning screenwriter of Crash, Million Dollar Baby, and the current In the Valley of Elah) tells the story of working with Clint Eastwood on Flags of Our Fathers and partway into the filming, becoming convinced that a rewrite was needed. In spite of Eastwood's assurances to the contrary, Paul went ahead and did the rewrite.

Eastwood continued filming.

With the original script.

The film is brilliant anyway.

The best part of my weekend came when my parents called on Sunday evening to tell me that they loved the rewritten story. I'd wrestled for days with their notes, and finally arrived at a solution that both tightened the fourth plot line and delivered satisfying resolutions for three of my main characters.

But not for me, because apparently, I still have some tweaking to do.

Next week, I'll be headed to the Screenwriting Expo in LA, and pitching the story to at least five agencies.

It's a start.

And I Was Naked

My brother-in-law called on Sunday with notes on my screenplay. His first comment? "Font's wrong, Dude. You've used 10 pitch and it needs to be 12 pitch."

Crap.

One note, and 109 pages (acceptable) becomes 139 pages (so long no one will ever look at it).

He had other notes, mostly formatting, sort of redirected from things he got about his own screenplay from his former room mate, who is an Oscar-nominated screenwriter.

So, I sat down with my laptop and mercilessly ripped through the rough draft. I followed William Shakespeare's lead and got rid of all the stage direction, except where it's essential to the story.

And then I went through it again.

And again.

By Sunday night, I'd shortened it by ten pages, and by Monday afternoon, another seven pages. Have I mentioned that I hate rewrites? My elegant descriptions and scene setups had been reduced to cursory shorthand designed to evoke a visual in as few words as possible. Nothing remained but what was essential to the story.

And at 122 pages, I was still 2 pages too long.

Another note regarding a villain who never gets his comeuppance. I shredded a scene to give him that comeuppance, and damned if it didn't make the whole screenplay better. The writing was tighter, so it got me down to 120 pages. Another scene rewrite and it's down to 118 pages.

118 pages.

And the news this morning is that Hollywood is hunkering down for the writers' strike. There's a hiring freeze, and few production companies are reading new work.

Yikes.

Here's The Wind Up

It's been a week since I finished the rough draft of my screenplay, sent it out to readers, and realized I hadn't read it myself.

I have now.

The morning after I wrote that post about sending my screenplay out for other people to read it, I printed it out, bound it with brads, and took it to Starbucks for a cup of coffee and a donut.

I brought along a pencil.

I wrote in the margins; feverishly scribbled, barely legible notations I would later struggle to decipher.

And I discovered that I like sitting in Starbucks alone, reading and people-watching. There is now a 'bucks within walking distance of my apartment, and I may have to take up spending my Saturday mornings there, reading and people-watching, people-watching and reading.

Had anyone asked what I was reading, I'd happily have pitched the story to them, doing what I could to get that all-important response: "Wow. I want to see that movie!"

Since 7:55 am on Saturday morning, the notes and comments have been dribbling in from my readers. The first came from a friend married to someone in the Industry, who called in tears and thanked me for making her cry on a Saturday morning. "Amazing," she said, "Wonderful!" It's become something of an inside joke that the "high concept" description of the screenplay is, "It's Crash, with love!" Her honest opinion was that it's better than Crash. She offered some tremendous insight, leading me to make a couple changes even before I printed the thing out for my trip to Starbucks.

On Sunday night, my parents called. I could tell from my dad's tone of voice that they were not looking forward to telling me what they thought. They didn't like it, and found some of it disturbing. There were parts they did like... The coffee shop was nice, and the dialogue was spot on... But they wouldn't go see it. They also offered some excellent observations, and I am still struggling with them. As difficult as their comments were to hear, they will undoubtedly help tighten the "weave" of the four plots.

On Tuesday, I heard from another reader, who called it "honest" and "profound".

Over the course of the week, I've gone back over it half a dozen times, and made quite a few minor changes. I've also made one or two major changes: added a scene that whimsically brings things full circle, and toned down the scene my parents thought was most troubling. I can feel the thing getting better, but it still needs work.

One of the most surprising things about the process is how low on the priority list this seems to be for people I'm counting on most for solid notes. A couple people I've sent it to haven't even acknowledged receipt.

Even as I work through the process of rewriting, I am shifting my focus to the other part of screenwriting: selling the script. I have three weeks to develop and refine my pitch. It isn't going to sell itself.

The pitch is the part that worries me. Albert Einstein failed his math exams twice. I could be sitting on a wonderfully written script with a brilliant story, and still blow the pitch.

I'll keep you posted.

Oh, Get Over It

Aboard my last ship one evening in June of 1998, at around ten minutes after eight, a group of young petty officers came knocking on the Chief's Mess door with a complaint and a demand: Ban the movie "Blazing Saddles", which was the feature being shown that night.

It seems they were deeply offended by the opening scene in which the redneck cowboys demand of the black members of the track laying gang, "Sing us a nigger work song." These young petty officers were, to a man, black. And they found the scene offensive because of the use of the word nigger.

Being the good leaders we were, the chiefs present listened to the complaint, restated it to ensure we understood it, then pointed out that the scene showed the rednecks making fools of themselves attempting to demonstrate what they wanted after the track gang feigned ignorance. That the point of the scene was to poke fun at racists was lost on these young men. It didn't matter that one of the screenwriters was Richard Pryor. All they saw was that a white actor had used the word "nigger", something for which there could be no justification.

Our command master chief called down to the ship's TV station and had the film banned. While he was on the phone, he asked our young petty officers what movie they'd like to have shown in its place. "Friday," they said.

Ten minutes later, the command master chief called down to the TV station and banned that movie, too. His rationale? If a word is so offensive that its utterance in a film is sufficient reason to ban the film, then all films in which the word is uttered are banned. Periodically, for a period of about two months, he'd call down in the middle of a movie and have it banned. Eventually, the group of young men had enough and came back to the Chief's Mess to retract their demand.

Personally, I don't think they ever got the lesson he was trying to teach, nor did they ever grasp the concept that one of the greatest powers of comedy is its ability to illuminate evil. I wish I could have sat those men down and shown them that scene over and over until they understood it. "Look, here...see this group of hard-working black men stroking their chins thoughtfully, pretending not to know the requested song, and refusing to behave in a stereotypical manner? Now, see this group of white cowboys, prancing around, kicking up dust, flapping their arms like chickens? Which group looks idiotic to you? And in the next scene, when their white leader considers a piece of equipment more valuable than the lives of two hard-working black men, doesn't he get thumped over the head for it?" Would have been wasted breath.

Flash forward: present day. The government of the Philippines is seeking an apology from the producers of "Desperate Housewives" for a racial slur. Apparently, during the season premiere, Teri Hatcher's character asked a medical professional, "can I check those diplomas, because I want to make they're not from some med school in the Philippines."

The government of the Philippines. The government.

This is not a group of young men taking on the mantle of disenfranchisement. This is a government. Presumably, these are people in power.

Now, I am not a fan of "Desperate Housewives", and have never seen even part of an episode. However, I have seen an occaisional advertisement for the show, so I know that it is a comedy-drama, and if the ads are any indication, the main characters in the show frequently deserve a comeuppance, and very often they get it.

I don't know Teri Hatcher's character, but I know the type. For the character to say something of that nature, it had to be a setup for a later, well-deserved slap.

This is one way that comedy works. We see a despicable character (a character we "love to hate") get their just desserts and it points to their behavior as inherently wrong. An object lesson is thus delivered to the audience.

You don't have to be an intellectual to grasp this concept, and yet, many smart people miss it entirely. They hear the words, but miss the point.

Worse, the mainstream media reports on such objections as though it's the correct point of view. Over time, many people have come to believe that the context in which something is said is immaterial, that a word uttered must naturally have been chosen for its most hateful definition.

As a writer, I am dismayed by this trend. It assumes the worst of the speaker (which in the case of television and film is the writer), who is often in agreement with the individual who claims offense.

In one widely acclaimed and Oscar-winning film addressing the subject of racism, a white, off-duty cop (a nice guy, by any standard, and who we think is color-blind until this scene) blows away a young black man who, it turns out, is unarmed after all. We see the white cop torch his own car to destroy the evidence of the murder he's committed, including the victim's body.

And no one points to it and says, "See? SEE? That's racist! I'm offended by that scene! The producers should apologize!"

Some advice for those who would cry foul over things like these: Stop. Listen. Think: What is the context of the "offensive" language?

Not everyone is out to get you.

I'm Nice Because I'm Cynical

Maybe it's just me, but I am horrified by this story: http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20070930/ap_on_re_us/airport_death

What really made this woman snap? How is it possible to strangle one's self with handcuffs?

More importantly, what is happening to us?

I think she'd had enough.

Enough rudeness, enough people around her behaving as though they were the only ones who mattered, enough bad-service-with-a-smile.

It used to be that when you saw someone do something stupid behind the wheel of a car, it was because they were in a hurry or hadn't planned ahead far enough to change lanes amid the congestion. Now, virtually every bad driver out there is on a cellular phone. (This is my observation, anyway.)

Walmart has done away with their customer service phone lines, replacing them with a recorded message that tells customers to use their SELF help website "service". A year and a half ago, my old credit card company sold my balance to a different bank, which sent me a new card (same balance, same limit, new card), and I spent three weeks in daily automated phone loops trying to activate the card. After five minutes of menu listening and button pushing, I'd get a message that, "all our customer service representatives are helping other customers, please try again later." Followed by a resounding click. Airlines offer their best discounts only to people who purchase online, without using a customer service representative. I've called to book a particularly odd routing and been told, "You could have saved X dollars had you ordered online," when the routing I needed was not available online. Software companies charge large fees for technical assistance even when they don't offer adequate documentation to help you solve a problem on your own.

The article does mention that the woman was late for her flight. I'd like to know why. Did she fail to allow enough time to get through security? Did she fail to allow enough time to get through traffic? Less than a week after 9/11, I went back East on a business trip. My flight was scheduled to depart at 9 am, but I'd been watching the news and surfing the Internet, so I knew to arrive at least two hours prior to my flight. I got into the security line, boarding pass in hand, at 5:30 am. The line was already well over an hour long. A woman (who, incidentally, had three bags with her) a place in front of me in line turned to me and said, "Gee, do you think I'll make my 6 am flight?" I politely suggested that she go to the ticket agent's desk and let them know she would be missing her flight. She walked away, leaving her bags where they were, and asked over her shoulder, "Will you watch my bags?" No, I replied, I will not. Ten feet away, she turned and asked, "What did you say?" No, I repeated, I will not watch your bags. There was a moment of silent glaring between us, over which we could hear, "Due to the heightened security, keep your bags with you at all times..." She snatched her bags, called me an ass, and went to the ticket agent...who promptly walked her to the head of the security line.

So, given that the airlines will do everything in their power to help you get to your flight, including inconveniencing other passengers, what happened to this woman?

If she was late through her own negligence, why did she snap? If she was late through some unavoidable hazard like an accident the freeway, why did she freak out to the point where she choked herself trying to pull her way out of those handcuffs?

My cynical guess is that her family will sue the airline for wrongful death.

And my cynical side is also growing increasingly afraid that anyone we come into contact with during our day could come just as unhinged as she did, with equally devastating results.

In a very practical sense, and purely for survival reasons, it makes sense to be nice to people.

'Bout Birfin'

Beginning about 6 pm last night, I started sending the completed rough draft of "Everything In Between" out to my readers.

I don't know why I was hoping for immediate feedback. First, no one can read 110 pages in a few minutes, assimilate the contents, and write a well-thought-out response with cogent notes in, oh, half an hour. And B) it was Friday night.

To paraphrase Butterfly McQueen, "I don't know nuffin 'bout birfin' no screenplays."

Still, I feel like an expectant father. As I was writing it, I maintained a relatively casual air about it ("Oh, yeah. I'm writing a screenplay. It's no big deal."), even as I wrote 4 - 5 pages per day, forsaking most things, including basic hygiene on weekends, to get it finished. Having written "CUT TO BLACK" at 5:30, I was ready for bed by 9:30, at least physically, if not mentally. I tossed and turned a while, wonderinghopingpraying, semisuccessfully suppressing the nagging thought that I, myself, have never read it end-to-end, so whatthehellwasIthinking?

I know it's a monster of a good idea for a movie.

But is my execution of the idea even remotely on the mark? I don't have the faintest fucking clue.

I remember, at age four, dancing around the living room with my grandmother, singing, "She had a baby girl! She had a baby girl!" in the seconds after the phone call came with news of my sister's birth. I also remember being conscious at the time of the fact that I had no idea what that meant in real terms.

In a way, I've been dancing around for the last month, singing, "I'm writing a screenplay", with no idea what it really meant. And here I am at 3 am the morning after finishing the rough draft, wondering if I've done this magnificent idea any justice at all.

This much, I do know: There are nuggets of truth in it. In the second-to-last scene, one of my characters says something so poignant that before I could type it, I started bawling and had to take a ten minute break before I could continue. The critic in my brain says, "Sure, but will the audience feel that way?"

So, here I sit. At 2:15 this morning, restless from anxiety and heartburn, I could stand being in bed no longer, and I got up only to discover that I have nothing to drink that isn't acidic...including the water.

I believe I shall, after all, print a copy of my script and read it at last from start to finish. I will try to ignore the errors I see, and look to the story.

And later, I'll probably take a nap.

She Had It Coming

I killed a woman Sunday night.

Granted, she was one of the characters in my screenplay, but it was still a gut-wrenching experience. In the end, I didn't actually show her death, since the conversation between the characters at her death-bed was the important part of the scene, but that didn't make it any easier.

In fact, not showing her death felt a little like I was holding something back. I don't pull my punches on the rest of the screenplay; it's not gritty or edgy, but its examination of some topical and sensitive issues will certainly draw criticism from the Religious Right and quite possibly from women's rights organizations. Some of it will be decidedly difficult to watch.

So, why did I hold back from showing her issuing that last, long sigh as she passed? As I wrote the scene, and the two characters at her bedside talk, it became apparent that I didn't need to. No matter how I tried to steer the scene in that direction, the characters' conversation wouldn't let me go there. The dialogue was good, powerful, meaningful stuff; it just didn't mesh with the moment of this woman's death. Suddenly, I was at the end of the scene, and she was still alive.

And I realized that I didn't need to show it. It may be more powerful because I don't show it. One moment on screen, she's alive but on life support. The next, her sister is putting her personal effects in a box.

I'm learning a great deal about story telling as I write this screenplay, and one of the most important lessons is that what you don't say, what you don't show, can be even more moving than what you do.

I had known all along, since the morning I first outlined this story, that this woman was going to die. Her death carries important lessons for all the other characters...lessons about how we connect with each other, lessons about hate and intolerance and ignorance, lessons about love.

From a purely storytelling standpoint, her passing came at the climax of the story, the point at which the film moves from the second act into the third. We're into the home stretch, now.

Still, when the moment came, it was painful, and I found myself grieving the loss. I sat in the dark for a while. I got up and poured myself a glass of Pinot Noir, then sat in the dark a while longer.

I'll be finished with the first draft by Sunday at the latest. After that, it's out to my readers, then back for rewrites and adjustments. I won't see her in quite the same way I did when I was writing the first two thirds of this first draft, though. I'll know where she's going, how she ends up. Our relationship won't be as innocent as it was.

I guess that's to be expected. After all, I did kill her.

Even if she did have it coming.

Open the iPod Bay Doors, Hal

As a gift to myself on my birthday, I bought an iPod Nano (red, for those of you who are both Apple-savvy and socially conscious). Because size matters, I bought the 8 Gigabyte Nano...and yes, that's an oxymoron. I'm not sure how you can call anything a "Nano" if it can potentially store FOUR THOUSAND DOLLARS WORTH OF MUSIC.

In keeping with the Electronic Tradition of ThingsFailingToWorkRightOutOfTheBox, it took a while to get the thing installed. I didn't have to spend a whole lot of time troubleshooting; I downloaded the latest version of iTunes and everything worked.

And work it does. I am in love with this thing. Not only does it store and play back my music, and allow me to set my own playlists, it also sorts everything by artist, album, song title, genre, and composer. If I have more than one album by an artist I select on the Nano, I find that I can select all the songs by that artist, or the individual albums. Likewise, if I choose a compilation album, I'll see a menu of the artists whose music comprises the compilation. And it's all automated. All I have to do is load the thing, stick in the ear buds, and jam.

When I see those iPod commercials which feature people (or their shadows) dancing like spasmoidal hyper-lunatics whenever they hang the player's ear buds in their aural canals, I can so totally relate...no, that's not a descriptive enough term...I grok in fullness. Even now, as I write this, I can hardly refrain from tapping my toe to "Afraid To Dance" by Don Ross. Not only does the song kick ass, but so does the Nano.

Listening to music this way is ass-kicking squared.

When a device is this simple, I think it should kick this much ass. It should be this convenient. I shouldn't have to format the device, or program it a certain way to get it to work.

Ass-kicking aside, this much convenience makes me slightly uncomfortable, as though I need to know what I did to deserve it. Surely, I must have done something more substantial than capitalize the second letter of certain proper nouns. It doesn't help that, for such a very long time, I have openly smirked at people who professed their passion for iDevices.

It's the lower-case "i"; it seems to indicate possession, but with the normally capitalized first-person pronoun reduced to lower case, while the device's name is capitalized, is there some message of subjugation there? By owning one of these, is one submitting to the Will of Apple? And just what possesses who, if the "i" is attached to, and smaller than, the device's title?

I still smirk at the Apple iNotion (or perhaps it's an iCorporate iPhilosophy) that electronics are somehow vastly more powerful if they are plug-and-play-accessible to everyone. I've used Apple computers often over the years, and invariably ran up against the anti-immigration fence between what I needed the machine to do and what it would do*.

I show up at the computer store like Rodney Dangerfield, "Two of those, four of these, six boxes of the naked lady tees, and oh, my! That has to be the worst looking thing I've ever seen! Do you get a free bowl of soup with that computer? Oh, sorry! I looks good on you though!" Later on, if I see you around the electronics superstore, I'm likely to snort derisively and shout, "Hey, Whitey, where's your computer?"

I mean, am I the only one who hasn't missed the fact that the Mac computer spokesman is Justin Long, who has made a career out of playing Megadorks. Don't get me wrong: there is no one better at playing dorks than Justin is. Maybe that's the iMessage: "You own a computer, so you're already a dork. You should be the absolute best dork you can possibly be, and we can help you with that."

Let's face it, this little ass-kicking Nano is all the help anyone needs to be a complete dork. Or at least dance like one.

If you happen to be cruising around San Diego, I'll be the one rockin' out like Anthony Michael Hall in The Breakfast Club and I'm not ashamed to admit it.

*Key distinction: I said what it would do, not what it could do.

Backing Into Artistickiness

Last Monday, the Monday of Independence Day Week, a new guy showed up at my Improv class. (I say "my Improv class" like it's mine, which it isn't, so I'll amend that to say "our Improv class", which it is.) The teacher introduced him as a Director, and she actually did pronounce the capital "D", because he is a Director in the sense that he directs movies. At the moment, he is directing a short film.

Our teacher explained that he was there to meet the class because she thought he might find someone he'd like to cast in his film, and we all welcomed him, not because he is The Director Who Might Cast One Of Us In His Movie, but because that's how we are. Improv is fun and reasonable human beings like to share their fun, at least most of the time.

Later, when he was leaving, the teacher pointed to me and said, "Kurt is the guy I told you about who might be good for your lead."

Gulp.

Me?

He told us a little about the project, and invited me to what he referred to as an open casting call for the project on Thursday night.

So. I went.

Reading the pages, I immediately understood the character I was auditioning to play. Divorced dad, slightly angry, doesn't get along with his ex-wife. Got it.

Once I'd read the two scenes they wanted me to read, and done a couple more exercises the Director wanted me to do on camera, they asked how long I could stay. "We just want to have you read with a few of the boys auditioning for the role of the son, and if you can stay a little longer after that, with some of the women auditioning to play the ex-wife."

I was there for two hours.

When they let me go, I felt I'd done okay...there was more I could have done to polish the performance...but I knew it was a good sign that they's asked me to stay and read with a variety of other actors. It meant they wanted to see how well the other actors played off me.

Yesterday, he called and offered me the part.

One scene will feature me fly-fishing. I have never done any fly-fishing, so before we shoot that scene, the Director will arrange for me to get some tutoring on the subject. So, I did some research on fly-fishing, and it turns out that Brad Pitt had to do the same thing to prepare for his role in A River Runs Through It.

So, I will have that in common with Brad Pitt, at least.

Life is funny that way.

What We're Doing With Our Independence

Last night, my daughter and I walked down to the waterfront to watch the fireworks over San Diego Bay. It was a terrific night, warm enough to wear shorts and a t-shirt, but cool enough that a brisk walk didn't raise a sweat. Perfect San Diego weather.

The spot I chose was on the boardwalk between a California-style pizza place and the store that sells fishing tackle, overlooking the marina which is home to dozens of million-dollar yachts and even more fishing boats, many of them of the kind that go for days at a time. If there had been a breeze, the booming of the fireworks would have been mixed with the pinging of the rigging on a hundred sailboats. I love both sounds, and when they're mixed? I'm euphoric.

It wasn't terribly crowded where we stood, but there were plenty of families there: parents with strollers keeping one eye on their playful youngsters and the other on the fireworks, while the kids hollered and gamboled in blissful ignorance of the five fireworks displays visible from where we stood.

It might have been the Perfect Independence Day Experience if any of those kids had spoken English.

No,

I am not a racist.

I am, however, a thoughtful moderate, and finding myself at a celebration of my country's birth surrounded by people who came here from somewhere else set me to thinking about a single question: What happened to The Melting Pot?

I was raised to believe that America had risen so quickly to become the great nation it is because we are a nation of immigrants. We've drawn our strength from a pool of positive qualities brought here by an enormously diverse group of people who came here (and still come here) seeking something better than what they had wherever they were. I have met many immigrants and befriended a few; they all share a passionate desire to work -- and work hard -- for the benefits they draw from their new home. For that reason alone, we Americans should welcome them with open arms.

My daughter's high school graduation ceremony was conducted in both Spanish and English. Spanish first, followed by an English translation. I won't say I wasn't miffed, but it stands to reason; Hispanic students comprise the largest ethnic group in San Diego City Schools. Bilingual ceremonies at public schools are an indicator of the change this country has undergone since the 1990s, when we began to espouse multiculturalism and encourage immigrants to retain their cultural heritage rather than assimilate.

I grew up in a predominantly Irish neighborhood, and I knew of several households where Gaelic was regularly spoken. Despite that, no one ever suggested that public school ceremonies be conducted in both Gaelic and English; those parents who spoke only Gaelic forbade their children from speaking anything but English at home in order to create an environment where they themselves could learn the language. Those parents had come here seeking a life better than what they had in Ireland, and they understood that it came at the cost of joining American society. They all felt it was a price worth paying.

Multiculturalism teaches that we can still have that unified society, but presumes that relinquishing even a small part of one's cultural heritage is somehow disrespectful, or at a minimum, embraces a misunderstanding of the importance of that heritage. The problem with that line of thinking is that a common language fosters a greater understanding between cultures, and the lack of a common language only serves to impede the very thing we as Americans ought to be seeking: acceptance of our fellow citizens.

This country has always struggled with immigration, and at one time or another, every single ethnic group in America has had to deal with the fallout of racism and discrimination. Every successfully integrated group has achieved their place in our society through understanding -- by understanding those who arrived before and by fostering understanding of who they are and why they came. The thing we all have in common is that we or our ancestors all came here seeking a better life.

The ongoing debate over immigration in this country is understandable, but the drive to close our borders and make immigration more difficult baffles me. To be sure, there are those who come here to leach off our society, but my experience is that these are very few and far between. The vast majority of immigrants come here understanding that they will have to earn their place here, and they go to enormous lengths to do so. I work with a South African immigrant who owns his own business and employs several people, including me on a part time basis. A friend of mine is a first-generation American whose father died a millionaire, but began as a tuna fisherman in the days when the industry relied on men who could stand on a rolling deck for days to haul fish aboard using cane poles. These men, and many like them, have earned their place here, and they embody the spirit of Democracy.

Our foreign policy for many years has centered on a desire to spread Democracy to other nations, and the war in Iraq and Afghanistan is a good example of that sort of cultural myopia. The governments in Iraq and Afghanistan are failing because Democracy cannot be given as a gift; it must be earned with sweat and tears and blood. Like any commitment, Democracy requires sacrifice every day.

As we walked home from the fireworks last night, I was a little sad for us as a country for our tendency to exclude those who come here with so much to offer, and for those who receive so little welcome.

I don't think anyone has said it better than Bill Murray in Stripes: "We're all very different people. We're not Watusi, we're not Spartans, we're Americans. With a capital "A", huh? And you know what that means? Do you? That means that our forefathers were kicked out of every decent country in the world. We are the wretched refuse. We're the underdog. We're mutts."

Welcome to America.

Staring at a Blank Page

The work on my screenplay continues at a frenetic pace. Until last night, I had four pages written, but as I worked on the structure of the piece, it became apparent that I needed a new opening.

It's sort of a shame to have to lose my original opening, because it involved a car accident, and let's face it, any movie that begins by smashing a 7-series BMW is, by definition, very cool.

It's not entirely gone - I merely moved it back by a couple minutes in favor of a more subtle opening that provides a better place to state the film's theme. The new opening also provides a better visual counterpoint for the film's ending.

Moving the scene means that I'll have to rewrite it, of course. So basically, I'm back to blank pages.

In the past, I'd have worried about this. Now, however, I have a much better idea of how to structure a film's story, and I can see how this change in the outline improves the story.

Blank pages ain't so bad.

Random Thought on a Superficially Pretty Day

Is it even possible to grind your own coffee without thinking of stampeding cattle?

Two Days in the Valley

There is empowerment in hanging out with creative people. The form of creativity doesn't matter -- music, dance, visual arts, acting, writing -- as long as you can share in the creative process, contribute to it. The blocks you faced and found insurmountable when working alone seem to be shaped differently, when viewed through the eyes of another artist.

One of the gifts I received at Christmas was a two-day screenwriting seminar with Blake Snyder, author of one of the best books available on screenwriting, Save the Cat!, and that's how I spent my weekend. Eight of us came in with a seminal idea and left on Sunday with a completed story arc (or several arcs, in my case, since my screenplay involves four intersecting stories)...something I never would have thought possible.

This was the Real Deal. Of the eight, only two had never worked in the entertainment industry. Among us were a television producer, an industry accountant, an executive, a production assistant, a story board artist, an animator, a writer who's been with one of the longest-running shows in television history since its second season, and the director of a Disney animated feature. And me, retired Navy, occasional blogger.

We began by going around the room and pitching our ideas. Blake is an intensely upbeat guy, and he'd greet each new idea with enthusiastic approval or with an enthusiastic question intended to jog things a little and clarify things not just for him but for his student. Every idea was a good one, with both story telling and commercial possibilities. When I described my idea, Blake exclaimed, "Yes! I get it! It's Crash, with love! That's a script you can sell!"

As the weekend progressed, the possibilities before us expanded as everything threw ideas out for the benefit of all, and as we chose from among them, our stories began to take shape. I can't speak for any of the others, but I remain astonished at how rapidly my own story took shape. With each note, each change or tweak, it became apparent (at least to me) that I've tapped into something universal, that my story just might touch an essential Truth.

I see my characters now, and I can hear most of them. I know who they are, where they come from, how they think. I know their blind spots. I know their dysfunctions, both open and secret. I know what will change them forever.

In October, when my brother-in-law and I return to the Screenwriter's Expo, I'll pitch my screenplay to as many people as will listen. I know exactly what I'll say.

The Best Part of Christmas

Having read my last two posts, you may have gotten the (erroneous) impression that my Christmas was not terribly good.

Au contraire, mes amis!

It seems only fitting to mark the milestone of my 200th post with this picture of my niece, Clara, demonstrating her skill at sitting up, something she could not do until four days before Christmas:

The steroid treatment she's undergoing to combat her seizures appears to be working, and when I snapped this picture on Christmas morning, she had been seizure-free for two weeks. She had bad days on Tuesday and Wednesday, and couldn't get settled for anything...one side effect of the steroid treatment is restlessness marked by crying jags that end as suddenly as they begin.

On Wednesday, Kate and Joe reduced her dosage of Phenobarbitol (the first medication they tried to ease her seizures), and it was as though someone flipped a switch inside her. On Thursday, she began to smile at people, and by the evening, she'd invented a game to play with Joe, where she'd hold up her fist until he touched it with his, then she'd pull it back and smile. On Friday, she began to interact with the rest of us, looking me in the eye for the first time in her life over lunch. She treated me to a half smile, then.

On Friday, Kate and Joe began to try to get her to open her fists a little, and offered her things to grab...by Saturday evening, she was grabbing a map out of Joe's hand.

So the best part of Christmas? Getting to watch a miracle happen, right before our very eyes.

They Got Us Coming And Going

We didn't have to spend another night in the Denver International Airport, but our bags haven't made it to San Diego, yet.

As it happened, more than a dozen passengers on our flight from Denver were deposited here in San Diego without luggage.

Clearly, the baggage handling system in Denver is broken.

To be fair, I should probably not blame the baggage handling system in Denver, I should blame the airline: most likely, they failed to load our bags on the flight out of Casper because of the weight limitations of the turboprop we flew to Denver, opting instead to put them on the next flight. That flight arrived in Denver after our San Diego flight departed, so our luggage was left stranded until at least this morning.

The thing is, the flight out of Casper was a) not full and b) two hours late because of mechanical problems.

And that, gentle reader, points to incompetence.

Standing by the baggage claim turnstile last night, watching the dwindling and slowly circling collection of not-our-bags, I thought about how little tolerance I have for incompetence.

If I go into a restaurant that is uncrowded and still boasts of slow service, I'd rather leave and go stand in line or sit at a table in a busy-but-efficient place than wait for Chatty Cathy to finish flirting with her manager. Drivers who hold up traffic because they can't simultaneously make a directional decision and talk on their cell phone should consider themselves fortunate that their metal box insulates them from the invective I'd offer them if I thought it would make a difference. I'm too polite to shove past people who block an aisle or path instead of moving out of the way while they fumble with their belongings, but the day when I'm not that polite is coming.

These days, the most polite response one can expect when telling a retail clerk or service representative of a problem is a shrug: not my problem, they say.

Now that automated customer service is so prevalent, they're probably right, and there is often no one there who can offer a solution. For example, when I call my parents, the phone company in Casper will often route my phone call to a recording that says, "You have reached 307-XXX-XXXX. We can't come to the phone right now. Goodbye!" While my parents sat by the phone on Christmas Eve, waiting for updates from the girls and me, all I got was that stupid recording. They could call out to me, however. Last night, I got the same message when I called to let them know we'd arrived safely, and when I called Operator Assistance to see if we could break through, I got no answer. From AT&T. I did get a recording which said that if I stayed on the line, an operator would assist me. I stayed on the line and let it ring for more than five minutes, and got no one.

As it happened, I had nothing better to do...we were standing in line waiting for a taxi. The girl managing the airport cab stand understood customer service, and in between calls for more cabs, she'd walk the length of the line and apologize for the delay, saying that she understood people might have New Year's Eve parties to get to, and just generally being bright and pleasant. Not one person waiting registered a complaint.

The day after Christmas, I called the airline's lost baggage assistance line, and ran through the standard automated maze ostensibly designed to route calls to the customer service representative who might be best suited to help, and got a terminal recording: "All our customer service representatives are busy assisting other customers. Good bye!" After six tries, we just got in the car and made the half-hour drive to the airport to see about our luggage in person.

Last night, when the baggage representative told us to call the baggage claim number today, I'm proud to say that I was able to muster the enormous self-restraint it took not to snort in derision at her. She had, after all, arranged to send my younger daughter's bag to Phoenix, even though she'd be flying there on a competing airline. The woman had done all that she could within the limits of the system, and she'd been concerned, even if she wasn't overly pleasant.

Therein lies the problem, I think. There's a system, designed to appear efficient, but which is anything but. Companies go to great lengths to tell their customers that automation is there to allow them to provide better service, but the reality is that the automation is there to avoid having to employ people whose salaries might be put to better use bankrolling the wildly overpayed CEO. (The "retention bonus" paid by bankrupt United Airlines to its CEO in 2004 was equal to...get this...what a customer service representative at United can make in fifteen years working fifty hours a week.)

It doesn't take much to make a customer feel appreciated. When I brought my car in for service in November, the customer service representative with whom I had my appointment was with another customer, so another rep helped me right away. After doing all the paperwork and making sure I was comfortable in the lounge (with a capucchino), he briefed my service rep on what I wanted and what was being done to my car...and it was MY customer service rep....the one I had the appointment with...who came to update me on the status an hour later, and who gave me my keys and my paperwork when the car was finished. The runner who went to get my car asked if I wanted it washed or if I had some place pressing to be (it was a weekday morning), and when I opted not to have him wash the car, he told me to just drop by any time and the dealership would wash the car for me. Two days later, the dealership called me to ask if I was happy with how I was treated and what was done to my car, and if I had any ideas that might help them improve the quality of their service. A few days after that, the manufacturer called me to ask if I was happy with the dealership. Not once was I subjected to an automated customer service phone maze.

Most people I talk to think this kind of service is beyond any reasonable expectation, but I disagree. It doesn't cost anything to be polite, and though it may take a few more minutes to ask, "Is there anything else I can do for you today?" and then actually do it, that sort of treatment builds customer loyalty and actually makes money for the company. Think about it: I spent more than a thousand dollars to fly to Casper. The two hours it took to make sure I was happy on Christmas Eve cost the company two hours' pay for the representative, and a couple meal vouchers...some $31 in total. The airline rep who dropped what she was doing to let me into the baggage room in Casper the day after Christmas took perhaps fifteen minutes out of her day, at a cost to the company of a whopping $2.25. Had I not been so abysmally treated by other employees of that airline, that $33.25 investment might have guaranteed thousands of dollars revenue, simply by creating a loyal customer.

It's unfortunate for the airline that the ticket-crusher I wrote about in my prevous post doesn't understand that. Nor do the baggage handlers and maintenance techs who can't be bothered with doing the job right. There will always be customers who are unreasonable and insulting, as was the woman I met in Denver who was wearing a full-length ermine coat. She was upset that the airline had brought her to Denver at all, since her flight was bound for Aspen. It had diverted for mechanical problems...flaps that would not fully deploy, which meant that the minimum landing distance for the airplane was greater than the length of the runway in Aspen. When she stopped her ranting for a moment, I said, "Well, better to spend Christmas Eve in the wrong airport than to spend it strewn all over the woods near the right one." She blinked at me twice and barked, "I have a home in Aspen." When she approached an airline employee, she said, "I'm looking for someone with enough intelligence to..." The guy smirked as he listened, no doubt wishing for the sudden appearance of a PETA crusader armed with a bucket of blood.

I think it was the film "Kelly's Heroes" which introduced the pseudo-Latin phrase, Illigitimati non carborundum: Don't let the bastards grind you down. Human nature being what it is, this slogan ought to be the defacto motto for anyone who deals with customers in any way, shape, or form. Unpleasantness on the part of people who haven't gotten what they paid for should never be an excuse for bad service.

When I was on my first ship, I had a chief who would inspect my work, and if he found it lacking, he'd say, "There's never time to do it right the first time, but there's always time to do it again." His words came back to me years later, when I was the chief, because the price of failing to do the job right the first time was often too high to contemplate.

I don't think that my military service has made me unreasonable in my expectations. Rather, it instilled in me a sense of how little difference in effort there is between doing the minimum and doing one's best, between getting in people's way and taking others into consideration.

I'll wrap this up now. Our baggage should have been on the ground in San Diego for seven hours now, and I still haven't heard a word.

Next year? I'm driving.