'I'm Sorry.' Of Course You're Sorry, You Screwed Up And You Aren't Really Sorry. Scumbag.

     You know how people say to you, 'Oh man, I'm so sorry'?  Yeah, you know what I'm talking about.  Well, get this.  They don't mean it.  They don't care.  They never cared, that's why they screwed you in the first place.

      See, this is what most people don't get.  People don't like you.  Maybe your Mother likes you.  Sure, she may have hit you with hangers and drank out of colored cup that contained a clear liquid that wasn't water.  But somewhere, in some little twisted corner of her heart where bad things happened decades ago, she loves you.  Ah, maybe not.  Who knows? 

      Maybe your Father likes you.  At least he says he does but thats about the end of the line.  Unless he's not a good man, your father, if he has not left you alone on dark streets while he takes a break from life inside the bar on corner of the dark street on which you are waiting - is probably one of the people who cares.  Moms have hormones and weight gain and the PTA and you and their loser husband to deal with.  Dad has very little to contend with outside the daily trek to the forrest to kill something to eat and hopefully keeping you safe from the things that go bump in the night.  So, Dad finds it easier to love you.  Still, that doesn't mean that he likes you, he's just doing another part of his job by loving you.

     Take everyone else you know from that prick at Starbucks who always gets your order wrong to the person who sleeps right next to you passing gas as if gas prices for filling up at the pump aren't already high enough.  Laying right there, ass up under a thinning blanket and a dingy sheet and they jsut have to hit that little spot on their belly button that release something akin to sarin gas on a packed subway train.  And when you groan or move slightly in the bed to limit the burn marks to your skin; they pop up with a tiny, insignificant, meaningless, 'Oh, hey, I'm sorry.'

     If they were going to be sorry for it, they wouldn't have done it to begin with.  See, here's the problem, they don't like you.  And they definitely don't like you as much as they think they like themselves.  On the list of life, you are down around the bottom of things people like the least.  Let me give you a hint, IBS is higher on the list than you are to most people.  If you doubt this, post your opinion on politics, race, sex or war on the web, watch the attacks come.  And I don't mean attacks about your opinons, I mean attacks aimed at you personally.  What did Taylor Swift ever do except write and sing songs about breakups?  Google her name and look at the venom that is wasted on her.  Even Kanye West stole her thunder.  You know why?  Because he could and he doesn't like her.  Guaranteed he wouldn't have taken the mic from DMX or one of the Bone Thugs.  Guaranteed.

     That is why whenever someone tells you that they are sorry, you have to look deep into your own heart.  Deep into your soul even and face the truth to descern the truth.  Examine their body language, their tone, the curve of their eyebrows and the number of times they repeat the words.  Do they mean it?  Do they really care?  Hell no.  See, that scumbag who just stepped on your sneaks, or cut you off in line, or took your cab, or spilled their drink on your new blouse or bumped you while you were standing far enough away from them so that they didn't have to -yeah, that half assed, swinging piece of meat- doesn't care and he or she is definitely not sorry.  That's why they voted against you for the private golf club or said your script idea was shit or said they liked your dress then laughed at you when you walked away with your ass hanging out from the large tear in the seam.  'Nothing personal,' they say.  Are you kidding me?  Everything mean, nasty, angry, ignorant and stinging is indeed personal.

      The apology is based in you making someone else feel good by you accepting their words. The apology is based on the concept that you are a forgiving, loving, kind and caring person.   Well, you aren't.  You just don't have the time or the energy to tell that son of a bitch that he or she is not indeed sorry and if you had not brought up or noticed the slight, they would have done it again.  It's the truth.  Pretend to ignore it the next time someone messes up the bathroom right before you go in.  Pretend not to notice the next time your significant other does that thing that they know you hate.  Watch what happens.  Nothing.  Guaranteed, nothing will happen.  They won't apologize because they won't think you need to hear it.

     But, you do want to hear it.  You do need to hear it.  You have to hear it and in hearing it all is well in your world.  I have a suggestion.  The next time someone crosses the line, call them on it.  Call them out.  Make a stink and stand proud in the knowledge that you are actually doing them a favor. Yeah, you're used to being the bigger person as you smile, shrug and walk away.  You're scared and so you leave thinking you were the bigger man, well, you're not.

        You see, most people are asleep.  I'm talking full on REM, down deep, dream state break into the house and kill the whole family, I won't wake up sleep.  You are an alarm clock and your snooze button is broken.  You need to know that the theater is full and although there is no fire, 'Fire!' is indeed what you're about to yell.  Wake them up and demand a sincere apology.  You want action that speaks louder than words, genuine, hearfelt, I swear to God, Jesus and that prick Judas too that I won't do it again.

      I bring up Judas because I guarantee that he did not sell out Jesus because of the silver, he did not sell out Jesus because he wanted to please the powers that were.  Judas did what he did because he did not like Jesus.  You'd think that if he was going to hang himself that he would have gone to the top of that hill and begged forgiveness at the feet of the man who hung from the cross on the top of that hill, but he didn't.  You know why?  Because from day one, Jesus was a target of his disgust.  Jesus was a good man.  He was so good that God choose him to be his son.  From the moment they met, Judas had it in for him.  Why not me?  How come I'm not the Son of God?  How come I can't heal the blind?  How come I can't feed all those people and get that standing O at the end of the act?  Judas is one of the first true examples of what people are all about.  Let me put this into context for you.  Judas had a chance to die an honorable and horrible death -as did all of the apostles- instead he decided to sell out a man that was the epitome of kindness, love, forgiveness and purity.  In short, Judas had a chance to touch grace, to embrace perfection and instead he showed his ass in such a way as to be an example to all of us that not only do people not like you but they are willing to cross you and then apologize so poorly that the sound is less than level of a moth screaming,  'Can I get a table dance?' at a strip club in Vegas.  Moths have no gold so gold diggers don't dig them and just as moths have no coin, most people have no regret for spitting in the wind in which your hair is blowing.

     So, while you want to be like Jesus, please understand, you are no Jesus.  You are not close to Jesus.  No one is going to write words about you in any Holy Book that billions of people will read and that will never go out of print.  Recognize that even though you want to be "Like Mike," even Michael Jordan doesn't like you.  He can't, he likes himself too much too.  You are just you and you deserve not to be lied to every time somone crosses the line, that thin line that leads to your heart and past your heart, down to your soul where every slight is aimed and will surely grow to reach a length that will allow it to find its way to its intended target.

     Deny the lie and wake the sleeping from their dreams.  Dreams in which you don't rate.

     Until next time, thank you for reading.  The images in this post remain the property of their owners.  This post is in honor of the man I crossed today and sincerely and passionately apologized to and then acted in a manner in which he knew that my words had meaning, weight and truth behind them.  Thank you for waking me, I was truly asleep.

D

One More Time, Real Slow....

       Recently I was sitting with a friend of mine over coffee at Starbucks.  Let me tell you, I love Starbucks. I didn't always love it but I do now and I'll tell you why.  There is a certain magic to the wait at this overpriced coffee bar.

     You walk in, you wait in line, you give your overly complicated order, they repeat your overly complicated order, they write your overly complicated order on your cup and then they hand the cup off to the barrista who will hopefully make the drink correctly and then call out your overly complicated order to you so you can pick it up and enjoy at your leisure.

     Important point, I have never seen anyone, anyone drink a Starbucks coffee, hot or cold quickly.  There is something about drinking an overpriced drink slowly.  Somehow you make yourself believe that you are getting more value.  You aren't, but because of the trendy atmosphere, the cool music, the hip location in the bookstore, next to the bookstore, around the corner from the bookstore; yeah, you get the idea.

     By the way, you can get the same cup of coffee at McDonalds or even at 7Eleven  - unless you mind being hit up for change by a guy or girl or something in between standing outside a small convenience market with a filthy entrance where people seem to just have to spit on the ground before they go into the store.  Why that is, I have no clue, but they do it.  In fact, I've done it.  And yes, I will do it again.  Not so much at McDonalds but then again, there is a big difference between the two franchises.  McDonalds is All American, 7Eleven, not so much.   In fact, I've been in 7Eleven a few times during a shift change when I swear to God there was a meeting going on about how to overthrow the U.S.  I can even recount the number of times I've gone in and the guy behind the counter  - who thinks that using deodorant is tantamount to drinking toilet water from a toilet he has just used- refuses to touch my hand when he gives me my change.  I swear, one time, this scumbag actually dropped the change into my hand from a distance of at least eighteen inches and then looked at me as if I was a leper.  Half the time, I can't even get my own change into my own pocket without dropping most of it on the ground, how did this Son of Bitch do it from a foot and half away?  Yes, I wrote Son of Bitch, say it out loud, it's pretty funny.  I almost threw my change back at him but I needed the .95c for a McRib at McDonalds which was my next stop.

     So, why can you get the same cup of coffee at McDonalds or 7Eleven that you get at Starbucks only cheaper?  Here's why, because you are not, listen to this, you are NOT the coffee connoisseur that you think you are.  You're just another guy or girl who wants a hot, steaming cup of coffee, black or maybe with a little sugar or cream to wake you up and get you through your morning.  The rest is all bullshit, unless you want the experience of coffee, for that you have to go to Starbucks.  Starbucks.  Not Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf, not some trendy little spot; but Starbucks.

      So, my friend and I are sitting across from one another in a couple of sweet wooden chairs and a beautiful wooden table which sat on a very clean floor which was splattered with sunlight from an extremely clean front window.  Clean.  I mean, clean.  We were having a very deep conversation about some very important issues that I would not have felt comfortable having at either McDonalds or 7Eleven.  I tried it once and it didn't work out to well.  I was talking to an intern about a project we were working on while he stood in front of a rotisserie that was rolling what looked to be little goat dicks back and forth over hot metal rollers.  I stopped mid-sentence and watched the rollers moving back and forth and I swear, I became hypnotized thinking about what the hell kind of meat could have been in that sick looking deli snack.

      From that moment on, the meeting was a waste.  So, like I said, you have to go to Starbucks.  Now, as I said at the beginning of this blog, I hated Starbucks for a while.  It wasn't because of their double standard health care plan, or because of the 'partners' who act like they aren't there to serve you, or even because of the price increases.  Hey, I'm a capitalist, I don't mind a US based company making a profit, especially when they serve a great product.  My disdain came from a simple interaction with one of the top people in the company.  In short, their behavior was unforgivable, insufferable, childish and self-indulgent.  Took me a long time to reconcile that just because a person acts like an ass, it doesn't mean everyone in the chain behind him is an asshole as well.

      So, here I sit, in a sweet wooden chair with my cup double cupped and my coffee nice and hot, just like I like it.  I think I'll finish this one in the next hour or so and come back tomorrow for another one that I will order the exact same way, one more time, real slow.... And then I realize why it's so important.  I want the AOF to be like Starbucks.  Starbucks without the complications and not the bad stuff, but the good stuff.  I want the AOF to be a place where people see the difference between what you can get at this festival and not at others.  I want the AOF to be a place where people don't have to wait, but don't mind waiting if they have to because they know if will be worth it.  In short, I want people to come back again, and then again.  It's been nine years and soon it will be ten and then fifteen and then twenty.  I hope we are able to create a brand that people will frequent and find value in.  I mean sure, you could go to another festival, but then again, if we do our job right, why would you?

       As usual, thank you for reading.  NO!!!!!  All 7 Eleven Clerks ARE NOT TERRORISTS NOR DO I MEAN TO IMPLY THAT, NOR DO I BELIEVE THAT.   The photos in this blog continue to be the exclusive property of their owners and not mine unless they are mine then keep your mouth shut. Until next time; if you're going to take the time to ask, ask nice.

D.

Hey Asshole

     I am loathe to write this edition of my blog because it hits a little too close to home but as I have decided to let cowardice fade from my character like my ex-wife's last insult, let's get started.

     To be clear, I am an asshole.  You are an asshole.  Everyone I know and everyone you know is an asshole.  These are the facts.  These things are indisputable.  Not to your mother, not to your best friend, not to that cute little waitress that you keep over-tipping even though her service sucks, but to someone out there, you are indeed an asshole.

     I discovered and learned to embrace my own ass-holiness recently when it was pointed out to me by someone in my employ that I was indeed an asshole.  He didn't say the words.  He didn't yell at me or even curse me behind my back.  He simply agreed to do a job, the way I had asked him to do it and then, - wait for it-  wait- of course, then he DIDN'T do it.

     For a moment, I was mystified, shocked, maybe even a little blown away.  Had I not kissed the ass of this asshole hard or long enough?  Did my cash bounce?  I mean, I had just handed it to him.  Did my twenties and fifties suddenly lose their value once they slipped from my hand into his pocket?  Somehow in less than a minute I had transformed like an X-Man with worthless powers from a pretty decent guy into just another prick who was holding this man DOWN.

     I had become, THE MAN.  Not THE MAN in a good way, but THE MAN in the way that somehow diminishes another person's worth just by the association.  Again, he didn't say it.  He just looked at me with a certain disgust and lack of respect that was born solely and certainly from my desire to honor him and my work by bringing them together in what would surely be a marriage of talent and performance, of art and artist.  Instead I was simply creating an unholy alliance of spite and disappointment which could only produce a child of no discern-able kingdom, phylum, class, order, family, genus or species.

    F*%k!  I hate when that happens.  Not again!!!!!  Back to the lab boys, back to the lab....

     She is looking up at me with the eyes of a wounded baby seal and I am nothing but a starving Eskimo holding a battered piece of wood from which protrudes a long, jagged, rusted and deadly nail.  A nail which is covered in dried blood, broken flesh and shattered dreams.  Only thing is, I am no Eskimo.  In fact, I can't stand the cold.  When I go to MacDonald's for coffee, I have to microwave it for an extra three minutes on high heat, even on a hot day.

     She disarms me with a smile.  She whispers a tiny secret and I am defenseless.  She winks without the corners of her mouth turning up and I think that God has created a new universe with stars placed perfectly on the backdrop of the black tar sky.  To her, I am no asshole.  I am the purveyor of her wishes and the sandman for her dreams.

     I go back to work and my private usher to my new throne as King of the Assholes is there waiting.  Waiting to not do his job, waiting to not do what we agreed to, waiting to do again what I did not want but never to do what I wanted him to do.  Suddenly, I find that I have no anger for him.  I pay him no attention, I give him no purchase on this mountain, no hold on which to charge this hill.  Suddenly, I find myself back in my Eskimo dream.  The cool winds that blow now only serve to remind me that maybe I should enter every room from this day forward by bending over and walking into it backwards.  Perhaps this way I will be recognized by the other Assholes as their true King and they will move away quickly giving me a wide berth and straight path to my place in the sun.

     Perhaps this way, they will not hinder me from my true purpose, they will not delay me on my trek to her smile and my steaming cup of coffee.  Bent over and walking backwards with my face in my shins I doubt if they hear my screams to get out of the way but they do.  I have been recognized, I am bonafide.  They scurry away like fleas from a freshly dipped dog,  They have to move for I have wishes to grant and dreams to make come true!

     As usual, thank you for reading.  The images included in this blog remain the property of their owners.  Until next we meet, keep it clean kids.  No fish hooks, no biting and no eye gouging.  Oh wait, biting is alright.
D

We Die A Little Every Day

     I'm watching the breathing, shallow, harsh, faint and delicate.  Just sitting there, watching the breathing.  In, stop, out, stop, in, stop, out, stop.  Stop, stop, stop, cough, cough, in, stop, out for hours.  Fascinating.

      I put myself in the same position and watched my own breathing.  Slowed it down, sped it up, played with it like Sifu Ibrao used to say, 'come on, play with the motion.'  I was in Hong Kong the first time I saw someone play with the motion.  Right down the street from the Shangri La Hotel on a Sunday afternoon, walking with the maids who fill the streets on their day off.

Yes, this is Sifu Ibrao

     I guess I felt it first, before I saw it, white silks, thin shoes, short hair.  There he was, standing by the water, playing with the motion.  Everyone thinks of Tai Chi as some passive art.  That's bullshit.  Out of that peace came a lot of chaos.  A lot of asses got kicked from the roots of Tai Chi.  Anyway, this guy is breathing and going through the movements of Southern Style Tai Chi, long form, no stopping, no peace, no rest, no doubts.  What was amazing was not the number of people who were watching, but the number of people who weren't watching.

      I stood back and admired his precise movements and careful anger as he practiced.  He moved everything around him.  I could feel the wind moving around him -wind caused by his movements- and I watched his breathing.  I watched and noticed that the same way years later that my old friend died; that this young master was dying too.  He was on his way out and I could see it.  Owed the wrong somebody money, had a disease, was depressed over some girl who didn't think Tai Chi was as cool as he did.  Who knows?  Who cares?  Didn't matter, he was on his way out.

      Last week, a young actor was in my office working on a project and I watched the actor die a little. Screwed up the lines, got lost in the words, held the breath a little too long and then forgot to take another one.  I could have jumped in and helped but like I said, we're all dying a little every day.  Nobody in a Bay Watch outfit coming to save me.  I'm on my own -and  I'm no lifeguard- so, so was the actor.  Besides I wasn't really interested, more pressing issues at hand.  Not worth it, not for this.  Too trite, too pedestrian, too stupid.

Neither of these actors are the actor from my story

      So, back to the old guy.  He squirmed every once in a while.  He was remembering his life just as it was leaving him.  Bittersweet; like a fat girl with a pretty face.  What do you do?  Nothing you can do.  Carry on soldier, didn't you see her smile?  You live and he was living - as much as he could.  Funny to watch someone pass without realizing and wondering about who is watching you tick down your own private clock.

     It's dark in the room, just a sliver of light from a window with a crack in the curtains.  Reminded me of the thin lights on the floor of a theater which reminded me of the actors who choke on their lines and the actresses who can't remember their marks and the producers who throw money into bloated productions that will never make their money back.  If you listen close enough, you can hear their breathing too, in, stop, out, stop, in, out, in, out, stop....

     I've been paying a lot more attention to everything lately.  Everything.  A lot of stuff is slipping through the cracks, fading away, finding its way into my own little obscurity trap.  It's a personal place full of things, people, memories and efforts that weren't worth a damn.  What's left though is pretty exciting.  There's the new movie, the new documentary, the new book another show and the people associated with them.  Now, those things are worth fighting for.  Worth breathing deep for and worth playing with the motion to make sure they succeed.

     Today I got a coffee for Joe Pesci, actually it was a decaf caramel macchiato - decaf - easy caramel.   I could have sent someone else but I wanted to do it.  Not because it was for Pesci but because it was raining and and I wanted to get wet like I used to when I walked home from school with no umbrella.  Each drop of rain that hit me was more important than most of the crap that I used to think was important just a few years, months, weeks and even days ago.  I'm watching my own breathing now, listening to it and paying attention as well.  Maybe no one else is watching but I am and I'm realizing that we all die a little every day.

    As usual, all photos in this blog are the property of their owners.  To me, an actor can be male or female.

     Joe Pesci is a pretty cool guy, cooler than he seems in the movies.

     Oscar De La Hoya is a gentleman who helped a kid out whom he'll never meet.

     Dwight Hicks was the best free safety in the history of the NFL and very talented creation made by hand by God himself.  Dwight is on the left. The old man and the young master are both dead.

It's Christmas time.
Yeah baby!  D.

What Gives You The Right To Quit?

      Here we go again.  The same old bullshit rises once again.  AOF Festival 2012 just ended and I'm back on the trail of the great American Film.  Not someone else's but my own.  It used to be that everyone wanted to pen the Great American Novel.  Not me, I want to sit in that dark theater surrounded by strangers in a very familiar land and share an experience that is real, powerful, moving and surprising at every turn.  In short, my Great American Movie.
      From November to August I have the pleasure of watching everyone else's films, shorts, docs, animations, music videos etc., but from August through November, the tables turn and I'm the one pitching and wheeling and dealing to get something done.  That's not saying that I don't complete projects throughout the rest of the season, I'm just saying that those projects are usually work for hire or someone else's piece that I happen to be working on.

The Krikorian Theaters Home of the AOF 2012

      This season was amazing.  (A word I truly hate because every 'actor' uses it when they can't think of another way to say, 'incredible.')  And when I say amazing, I mean it because to watch the dynamics of so many talented people brought together for ten days to showcase their work, their dreams, their goals and even a few failures; really is a powerful and humbling experience.
     This year was a bit different though.  With over twenty thousand people visiting our festival during 2012 and sold out dinners and parties, it is easy to get lost in the shuffle.  Juggling sponsors, advertisers, vendors, filmmakers, writers, staff and even a few stars can be a challenge but with a great crew and support team, it isn't as hard as it used to be.  In fact, I found myself with a lot more free time this season than ever before.  So much in fact that I had time to just hang out with some really great people who all had a project to pitch.  Except for one freakin' guy.  This son of a bitch, really, I mean really pissed me off and that is so hard to do that I can't remember the last time it happened.

Stan Harrington - A Filmmaker who is definitely committed to his work

     We met up in the Filmmaker's Pavilion and instantly I knew I was in trouble.  He had a look on his face like he just lost his mother, his father, his dog, the keys to his Prius and the hard drive that held the only backup copy of his 'bullshit' masterpiece.  (His words, not mine.)  Now, the problem is, I'll listen to anyone, it's my job, part of my purpose and a great way to learn.  But this guy really just got to me.  It seems that he wasn't happy with the audience response to his efforts.  He wasn't happy that everyone didn't get it.  He was disappointed that the DP didn't follow his directions and the editor didn't agree with his decisions.  In a nutshell he thought that maybe he should pack it in and quit.
      I asked him if he thought that the experience had any value at all?  His answer was, and I'm paraphrasing here because I'm still a little foggy on all of the details this guy was throwing at me, but in short he felt the experience held no value - save for that to show him that it was probably time to quit 'trying' to be a filmmaker.

AOF 2012 Filmmaker Pavilion

      Immediately I began to go through the list of people who got rejection letters from us this year because we couldn't show their films.  Films which were just as hard to make, just as tough to produce and required just as much funding and love as the one that proved to be an albatross and not a badge of honor to Mr. Sunshine.
      After about thirty minutes of this bullshit, -not the bullshit I refer to in the first paragraph; that bullshit is comprised of meetings that will go nowhere, people who don't want to work with you but say they do, actresses who want to know who you're working with because obviously you don't qualify as talented enough as far as they are concerned, investors who have less money in their bank accounts than you do in the tiny pocket above the real pocket of your 501's and various other crap that goes along with getting something done- I've had enough of him so I say, and not in a shy way.  'What gives you the right to quit?'  He didn't answer right away which was cool because I needed time to calm down a bit.  Finally he asked, What do you mean?   I asked him again.  He said that he didn't understand the question.  

Committed Squared

    I told him that I assumed that it wasn't his money that I was looking up at when I saw his film on the screen and he told me that it wasn't.  I said that I'd bet real dollar bills that everyone besides the DP and Editor had worked as hard as they could?  Again, he said I was right and wanted to know, what exactly was my point?  I told him that my point was that he didn't have the right to quit.  He had used other people's money, he had taken a spot from another filmmaker who would have loved the chance to see their work on the big screen, he had used the labor of people who believed in him and worst of all he hadn't committed himself to his project and his work.  And if he wasn't really committed to the project and to his craft that maybe that was a reason to quit but the project itself, the people around it and the audience that watched it were no where near reasons enough to quit.  He didn't have the right to quit or to lay blame unless he was blaming himself, which he wasn't but he should have because it was his story, his project and he hired that DP and he hired that Editor.  The only place for blame was squarely on his shoulders, rounded as they were.

Shaun P. and the Crew and Cast from The Lackey - Another Super Committed Filmmaker

      Now, I find myself in October with only two months to go and it's time for me to make my movie.  Time to put my commitment on the line and I have to tell you.  I'm glad I had that talk with a guy who wasn't committed, who wasn't sure, who didn't know and frankly had no real concern for the time and efforts of the people who had believed in him and his work even when he didn't.
     A year ago, I started this blog writing about a project that had failed.  Today, I'm writing about the same project as it prepares to sail again.  Still committed, still believing and still sure that I don't have the right to quit we'll move forward.

Giovanni Zelko and Harry Lennix - Yeah Baby!

     Is it going to be the Great American Movie?  I don't know, but it sure is going to be my Great American Movie.  I'll keep you posted.
     Until next time, say 'Hi' to your sister for me.
D

Streets of Gold

     Nearly twelve years ago, I sat down with a friend to write a show we called, Streets of Gold.  The show would be a comedy about Persians living in the United States.  It would be funny, daring, entertaining and powerful.

      We wrote a total of three scripts and they were funny as hell.  Now after a dozen years, over a hundred and forty-four months, this project is finally going to be shot.  It's ready to be shot and it needs to be shot.
     Usually I don't talk about projects until they are nearly done because it has proven to be a deadly practice in the past.  After a while though; you get tired of worrying about what could go wrong and just get down to putting it out into the universe and seeing what comes back to you.
      We did a full cast rehearsal a few weeks ago in a 99 seat theater in Hollywood.  I invited a few friends to critique.   The actors did a fantastic job.  It was a good time.  Since then I've written two more revisions of the scripts with my partner and tonight I got to hear the two leads do their lines.

     Sitting there in that room with the two actors who will bear the responsibility of not ruining this show;  I realized that I'm glad we waited this long to do this project.  Independent of the subject matter, independent of the horrors of 9 / 11 and independent of the revolutions in the Middle East, it's time to do this show.  Now.
      Recently I was sitting at a Starbucks and I overheard a guy talking about how it had taken him a year to raise the money to do his project.  A whopping five grand that he raised from his mom and dad.  He was talking about how tough it was to get the financing in place and now he had to finish the script.  I was thinking, 'Fuck this guy.  One year?  I've been waiting twelve and you don't hear me standing in line for a latte acting like I just beat Spielberg out for an Oscar.'

     By the way, this guy wasn't a kid, he was a grown man begging off of his parents and he didn't even have a finished script.  Don't get me wrong, there have been times I wish I could go to Mom and Dad and pull a little something out of their accounts to play producer / director but that wasn't in the cards.

      At any rate, he's doing his project and I'm doing mine, no matter how they come about; I guess that's all that matters.  The reason I'm writing about it now is I realized that no matter how long it takes or how it gets done, you've got to get it done.
     One year, twelve years, five thousand or five million, investors or mom and dad, who cares?  In the end, it's all the same, did you do your project?  Did you take the chances?  Did you give yourself the chance to succeed?

      Will these streets turn out to be Streets of Gold?  I don't know.  No one does but we're going to put everything we have into it.  And I hope when your turn comes up, you'll do the same.  We'll keep you posted.  Until then, Filmmakers First.  Thanks for reading.

(Please note, I do not know the Persian woman in the berka, this is not my Cast, this is not my Starbucks Cup, these are not the parents of the guy in line at Starbucks and these dice, well, I don't like craps but it looks fun.  The rights to these photos are exclusively those of the folks who took the photos).  Thanks  D

Blood On The Page

     I love the concept of 'Blood On The Page.'  The phrase has been coined and used by a number of writing instructors and professionals and it refers to the intensity, risk, power, passion and loss conveyed through a writer and how he or she puts his or her characters in jeopardy.  Jeopardy.  I'm at a complete loss now for how and why people could possibly be at a loss for inspiration  to write in times like these.

     In just the last few months, Moammar Gadhafi was ousted from power and assassinated in a filthy gutter and laid to rest in a walk in freezer,  protesters are marching on New York, Europe, and across the United States.  Greece is near financial collapse and Thailand suffers from the greatest floods in nearly half a century.

     Blood on the Page?  Not even close, there is Blood on the Streets, here, there and everywhere.  If you can't look at what's happening right under your nose and see risk, drama, pain, suffering, jeopardy all around you; you might not be looking hard enough.

     I was watching Steve Jobs' biographer on 60 Minutes and he was talking about the fact that Jobs may have been wavering (or growing, depending on your point of view), regarding his belief in God and an afterlife.  Talk about beating the odds, here's a guy who was adopted, did drugs, built a company, lost it, came back when it was on the brink of disaster and took to a place that no other company has ever gone before.  Did I mention the fact that a guy who was given up at birth went on to amass a fortune of over seven billion dollars and changed the lives of hundreds of millions of people in the process?  Listen, if that incredible, painful, powerful, successful, hopeful life didn't prove the existence of God, nothing will. 
     At any rate, the thought of where the greatest CEO in the history of the world is now made me think, I mean, really think.  Where is Steve Jobs?  Where is that brilliance?  Where is his soul?  Where did it go and is it gone forever?  Immediately I began writing a story about my take on Steve Jobs; not his life, but his death.  You want Blood on the Page?  Doesn't get any bloodier than cancer.

     You want inspiration as a writer?  Put a photo of a dead Moammar Gadhafi next to photo of a smiling Steve Jobs standing on stage in front of a thousand fans while he introduces you to the new iPad.  While you're looking at the contrasting faces, hum to yourself, 'One of these things is not like the other...'  When you're done humming, ask yourself, what the fuck is going on?  Short answer, There's Blood in the Streets.  Next move, Put It On The PAGE.

And no, I am not comparing Gadhafi to Jobs.  All the photos are the property of their respective owners and yes, that is the great writer / director Vic Wright standing next to me.
Thanks for reading.
D