coyotes ugly.

So, anyhow. The coyotes.

In the cartoons, Wile E. Coyote is carnivorous, but loveable. He also works alone, is usually silent, and relies heavily on the Acme Company for implements of death.

Truth be told, none of those things is based in reality. Coyotes are not even close to loveable. Like beer, they come in packs. And they have no hard currency to buy implements of death. [Not to mention the fact that the average coyote’s credit rating is terrible.]

I know these things because at least once every two weeks — around the time when I should be dreaming about drinking Ovaltine™ shooters with Harry Houdini, President James K. Polk, and George Gobel on a dingy, floating down the Nung River to see Dennis Hopper and Julia Child play tennis — I am startled out of my deep slumber by the sound of a pack of coyotes attacking an animal of some sort outside of my window.


Sometimes it’s down the street, sometimes it’s in the distance, but sometimes it’s right next to my building. No matter where it originates, it’s not a sound you ever want to hear. It’s a cacophony made up of high-pitched [piercing, actually] cackles and howls, times 10. Because to my ear, that’s about how many coyotes there are.

Unfortunately, in a way, it’s the din of pet owner Darwinism. I’ve been told that the residents hate the coyotes, which makes sense. Sometimes the casualties include their dogs and cats.

That said, I have a question for them: What the hell are you doing leaving their pet out at 3 a.m.? You live on the edge of a canyon. Wild animals live in the canyon. You can hear the coyotes in the distance. What the hell did you think was going to happen?

I don’t think any of these are pet owners who fall under the “Einstein” category. I doubt they’re capable of formulating the “leash theory.”


You would think that the “Caution Rattle Snakes” signs posted around the aforementioned canyon would be an obvious indicator that we’re communing with nature. I mean, you can’t really get too angry at the coyotes, right? It’s instinct. Ginger is a canine. Ginger is pissing on ground where they tread. Ginger is easy bait because ginger is tethered to a metal stake in the ground. Ginger, unfortunately, is always going to lose in that scenario.

So maybe the dogs shouldn’t require the license. Maybe the owners should. I'm just sayin'.

hollywood is burning.

It’s been a while since my last post, and my original plan was to write about the packs of coyotes that have been attacking pets and wild animals outside my window at night. But that will have to wait.

Why?

BANG!BANG!BANG!BANG!!!

Eryn [Chloe, for those of you keeping track] is at my door.

“Have you seen the fire…?”

[cut to]
Eryn and me hurrying out to the curb to gaze up the street. The sunlight is orange. Not just in the general area of the fire — everywhere. It’s actually orange. The closest thing to it is the pale yellow in the atmosphere before a tornado. Only this is different. 'Cause this light is orange. Which isn't yellow. [I think you follow.]

And there it is: The Hollywood sign is standing in front of billows of smoke. To its left, fire can be seen licking up the far side of the mountain, menacingly edging its way towards enormous, white vowels and consonants. Overhead are a number of helicopters —both of the firefighting and the six o’clock news varieties. [The news was hovering, and the firefighters were dropping what I assume was several tons of asbestos onto the conflagration. Something to look forward to.] Since Universal City is on the other side of the mountain, it's safe to say that about 17 screenwriters snapped into action at once — they got on their Macs and iExploited the situation. I'm sure sometime next year, there will be a movie called, "HOLLYWOOD! Letters Ablaze!" Shit. Now that I think about it...

As I’ve mentioned before, my street is big with tourists. Lots of people stop to see the sign. And I’ll admit that it’s still a little odd to drive to my apartment and see it staring down at me. But it’s downright surreal to see people taking vacation snapshots, completely oblivious to the fact that the residents are starting to consider whether or not they should move their HD televisions to their cars for quick getaways. [Admittedly, this would have been a smart move, had the fire reached the crest. At that point, it would have been an easy path down to my neighborhood.] Of course, many of the residents were thanking god that their biggest investments are attached to their chests. But it's absurd to think that a tourist can block out a potentially dangerous situation so they can get that coveted snapshot. Freaks.

In any case, these, here, are a few of the shots I took of the biggest drama in Hollywood today. Consider it a preview of next year's biggest summer blockbuster.

Oh. And the cause?

Two teenage boys playing with firecrackers. Their parents are, I'm sure, very, very proud.

we love trash.

The Oscars. They’re, like, the Super Bowl of award shows. Only with slightly better officiating. [As far as big events go, the Super Bowl has the edge because the speeches are far more articulate: “How’d we win the game? Well, basically, we scored more points than the other team. Then we poured my favorite sports drink on Coach. This was very funny to me and my friends. We laughed and we laughed. Then we got a trophy that I can’t even take home. Bulllllshit, man…”]

Oscar night is — as far as I can tell — the one night we can watch people who are paid to say things for a living, go, “umm… oh… God, umm… first I want to thank… wow, this was… this is… a mistake… I, uh…” Only to be followed by a thoughtful speech and the words, “Now, [insert son/daughter name here], go to bed.” Which is a joke that should, itself, be put to bed. These people make it sound as if they can’t afford nannies or parents to do the task of watching over their off spring, as the little bastards train for a life in rehab.

Winning an Academy Award is a big deal too. Or, at least it was, until Marisa Tomei won one. The Russell Crowe nod didn’t do much to restore its luster, either. [Oh. And by the way, Alan Arkin DID deserve his award. It was really a lifetime achievement honor, anyway. Frankly, anyone involved in the launching of Second City…]

But when you’re living here in the City of Brotherly Facelifts, the Oscars have a special added meaning: gridlock.

Oh, my holy god.

The problem is that I live pretty close to the Kodak Theater. And that makes for a fairly inconvenient truth which, coincidentally, won an Oscar. [Unless George Bush wants to take THAT away from him, too.]

I blame the traffic jams on People™ magazine, which is only slightly harder-hitting and accurate than Fox News. Is it really that important for its subscribers to have a place to sit to watch Gwyneth Paltrow enter the Kodak Theater to receive her posthumous lifetime achievement award? I mean, it’s important to keep up her exceedingly low self-esteem but Is it really worth the meticulously well-planned detours and the headaches? No. No, it’s not.

That said, it’s actually kind of an interesting spectacle to watch 100’s of limos navigate their way through Beverly Hills, West Hollywood [,etc…] an hour before the show. The Goodyear™ Blimp, hanging in the sky; helicopters, circling the perimeter — hell, even the trannies were dressed to the nines. [Or is it sixes?]

But my thoughts as all of this buzzed around me were simply, “acting is a beautiful career. Celebrity is rubbish.”

I’m not likely to change my mind on that point.

when i'm moving too fast, here's my new address.

When I was 19, I decided it would be a wise move to quit art school and travel to Ireland and the UK. I had the idea that I’d get there and find a job at a pub, where I might find the ghost of James Joyce lurking behind a barstool. So with an incredible naiveté, I flew to Shannon airport. (This was the day after the student stopped the tanks in Tiananmen Square — my journey was a bit more frivolous. Or not.)

After having gone through customs, I went to baggage claim, where I grabbed my luggage and turned around to get that job pouring Guinness for drunken men named Declan and Liam and Bono.

That’s when it hit me:

Holy.

Shit.

I’m alone in a foreign country and have absolutely no idea where I’m going to live or how I’m going to make a living. Plus, James Joyce is dead, everyone in the country named Declan and Liam is probably liquored-up and belligerent, and Bono won’t talk to me unless I’m covered with flies.

Which brings me to my current situation. Last week, I moved to Los Angeles. And if I don’t find employment or interest in my writing soon, I will, in fact, be covered with flies.

I loaded up the truck and moved to Beverly (Hills, that is) on the 11th. Three days later, I pulled up to my new home, which is situated directly under big, white letters that spell out “Hollywood.” (Technically, that’s where I live.)

It’s at this point that I must give you all a piece of advice: if ever you choose to drive across country — particularly alone — avoid the Texas panhandle. It is, without question, the creepiest place on earth. Like, ten times creepier than Disney World or a Carrot Top concert. Even the sunshine is creepy. (It marked the only time I was glad my friend Seif Hamid had chosen not to make the trip. Methinks we would not have been well received, or maybe even gotten out alive.)

So now , as I sit here, wondering how I'm going to make a living, I think to myself:

Holy.

Shit.

The neighborhood is terrific. It feels like a real, live neighborhood, with lawns, houses, and palm trees lining the street. And lots of dogs. Oh— and fake breasts. (SOOOO June Cleaver, that trollop.) Also, being that the sign is clearly visible, it’s big with tourists. (Typically, groups of Asians, who are living up to the stereotypes.)

I’m just two blocks from Hollywood Blvd, just down the street from the Capitol Records building, the Kodak Theater, and all of that well-known crap, which will prove to be ironic in a very good way, or a very bad way. Time will tell.

I’m also a few blocks away from the Henry Fonda Theater, where I just saw Neko Case, thanks to my friend Rachel — one of Neko’s back-up singers. She was kind enough to get me free tickets and after-party passes.

Great show. Even better when you consider one of the opening acts was a guy named Porter Wagner. He’s about 100 years old and his hands look exactly the same as those of every embalmed corpse. But his electric pink, glittered suit kicked ass and I’m pretty sure it was what was keeping him from flat-lining. His backing band wasn’t so terrible, either. It included (legendary country producer) Marty Stuart, Dwight Yoakam and Billy Bob Thorton. Not exactly a common scene.

Anyhow, those are a few things that I've been doing lately.

Gotta go. I’m on the hunt for the ghost of Charles Bukowski.

change. [for the soon-to-be homeless.]

Much has happened since I last wrote on this, here, blog — a new year; one less genocidal maniac; yet another round of cosmetic surgery. [I now have the most sublime calves.]

Lately, I’ve been criss-crossing the country. Lots of time spent on planes, wishing the fat French guy sitting next to me would give me at least SOME of the armrest. But no. The bastard just sits there reading his book, smelling of sweetbreads... Go home and surrender to someone, Frenchie. [see below]

Something else has happened since the last post: I’m now planning on moving to Los Angeles, which is situated in California, between San Diego and Oxnard. I think I’m most attracted to L.A. [that’s how people in-the-know refer to it] by its warm and giving population, about which I’ve already mentioned on this page. Everyone’s like a freakin’ monk or nun or short order cook or something. Very warm. Which leads me to the weather: it doesn’t rain. It’s probably the Prozac. Either that or Al Gore is pih- hih- hissed off. And you don’t want to fuck with Al Gore. He’ll open up a can of something. And eat it right in front of you. So let’s go with the drugs.

The reason for the aforementioned decision has to do with life. Mine, to be exact. It’s about time I change it because, frankly, writing hip replacement ads is no way to live. At least not for me. I’ve always been more in tune with the pancreas. [I’ve enjoyed metabolizing sugar my whole life.] Also, I like the idea of being a cliché for a while. Everyone in L.A. has a screenplay to sell. The difference between their screenplays and mine is that theirs isn’t mine, which is called “Raging Bull.” It’s about an eccentric chocolate manufacturer and the poor little boy who wins the chance to visit the chocolate factory. I’m pretty sure it’s gonna be huge.

In addition to the grand slam that is my script, it’s the right time to make the move because I now have management, thanks to the help of the lovely and talented Eryn Joslyn. As of Friday evening [01.19], I’m being represented by an outstanding organization and, in all honesty, it still has yet to sink in. This isn’t to say that I won’t be eating macaroni and cheese from a blue box for the next year, but it sure helps my chances of getting “Raging Bull” made.

Funny enough, I didn’t expect them to be such nice people. You have this image in your head about Hollywood weasels, y’know? I’m sure the weasels DO lurk around a large number of corners throughout the town, but these people don’t fall into that category. I’m crazy-fortunate. Damn crazy-fortunate.

So that’s what’s new in my world: you know… the usual.

Listen Up! The best of 2006 [I think].

Okay. Music was released in the past 365 days [or there abouts]. And since this is my blog, I’m going to give you my opinion as to what the best of it was.

My top ten, in no particular order:


TOM WAITS — "ORPHANS: BRAWLERS, BAWLERS & BASTARDS"
This is ridiculous. Every time this guy releases an album, it's, at the very least, outstanding. Often it's groundbreaking. Usually it's genius. And this time around, he casually put out a three-disc set — the sort of thing that’s usually reserved for retrospectives and The Clash, when they decide they want to put out “Sandinista.” And “Sandinista” was pretty uneven. “Orphans” is pretty damn close to perfect. I recommend paying close attention to his rendition of “Heigh Ho,” which he first recorded about 20 years ago. Those dwarfs were pretty fucking creepy and he sings it accordingly. Other than that, it’s just Tom Waits being Tom Freakin' Waits. And that, ladiies and gentlemen, is a very, very good thing.



BELLE & SEBASTIAN — "THE LIFE PURSUIT"
I’ve been a fan of Belle & Sebastian for about ten years now, and they’ve almost never let me down. [Check out “The Boy With The Arab Strap.”] When I heard they had a new album coming, I just figured they were going to do the same thing they'd done in their past couple albums. And by "past couple albums," I mean "entire career." Not that that was bad. But this time around, they replaced delicate melodies with volume. I’d always presumed that it never would have worked. I was wrong. Sue me. G'head. G'head. My counsel says you don't have a leg to stand on.



SUFJAN STEVENS — "THE AVALANCHE"
Last year, Sufjan Stevens put out “Come On Feel the Illinoise!” which was probably the best of 2005. This year he released its outtakes. How is it possible that an album of outtakes can be this good? I ask you, how? HOW???? Don’t answer. It was rhetorical. No, really, how is it possible? Answer me. Why is it every time we start talking about this, you find an excuse to leave the room? What about MY needs? Is it too much to ask you to listen to ME once in a while?? Y’know what? Forget it. I’m moving to Fresno to live with my parents.



NEKO CASE — "FOX CONFESSOR BRINGS THE FLOOD"
I'm a big fan of this one for several reasons. The first being that the tracks are just plain great. The second being that Neko Case has an outstanding voice. Maybe the second-best around. I say “second-best” because of the third reason this CD is so good. One of her backing vocalists on this one is Rachel Flotard of the band Visqueen, who, for my money, has the best female voice in rock. [Buy Visqueen’s catalogue on iTunes.] The combination of the two voices is deadly.



MIDLAKE — THE TRIALS OF VAN OCCUPANTHER
Not much to say about this one, except, damn! I mean… damn! A friend of mine sent me one of their tracks with the message, “this is your new favorite band.” And even though that’s not quite accurate…. DAMN.



CAT POWER — "THE GREATEST"
Ms. Marshall has put together a yet another package of songs. It's hard to top "We Are Free," but this one comes close. One thing, though: if you have a seizure disorder, treat the cover art like it's the sun. Reflective hot pink. Smart thinkin'.



JOHNNY CASH — "AMERICAN V: A HUNDRED HIGHWAYS"
The first music I can recall as a kid was Johnny Cash. I think it was “Live At San Quentin.” My dad has always been a huge fan. Anyhow, this one is an excellent farewell gift from the Man in Black. Worth it for "God's Gonna Cut You Down" alone. As much as I love his earliest work, an argument can be made that some of his best recordings were made in the last dozen years of his life. There’s something about the fragility of his voice that elevates the emotion and the meaning of the tracks.



CAMERA OBSCURA — "LET'S GET OUT OF THE COUNTRY"
Phil Spector's wall of sound meets kilts, haggis, and the Loch Ness Monster. That big, shiny sound hasn't sounded this great in years. Infectious tracks, seamless production. Camera Obscura used to be the stepsister to Belle & Sebastian. Not anymore. If you like hooky, smart songs, this is the CD for you. If you don't, I recommend Dave Mathews. Why? Because he blows. [Hey, I just calls 'em like I sees 'em. Admit it. You agree.]



BOB DYLAN — "MODERN TIMES"
There’s a reason Bob Dylan is Bob Dylan. It’s because he’s Bob Dylan. I’m pretty open-minded when it comes to the bands of the 60’s putting out new music today. I don’t think age should make a damn bit of difference. That said, it’s safe to say none of them is exactly in danger of topping anything they did in their collective prime. Nevertheless, I give ‘em a shot. Then there’s Bob Dylan [who, by coincidence is Bob Dylan]. I’m not a Dylan fanatic. But I do like him quite a bit. I own most of his albums; I actually like his voice; I think “Like A Rolling Stone” was one of the most important songs of the 60’s and it was a ballsy song to play at the Newport Folk Festival. But I’m not a student of the guy. HOWEVER! This album is tremendous. It’s a shining example of why Bob Dylan is one of the greatest songwriters of any era. [In other words, why he's Bob Dylan.] Even if you don’t like him, chances are, you’ll love this one. It would be the best of the year, were it not for…



TV ON THE RADIO — "RETURN TO COOKIE MOUNTAIN"
...this tremendous work of art. Okay. I lied. I guess there is SOME order to this list, because I’m ending with the very best of the year. This CD is remarkably good and unexpected. Completely different than any other album on this list. It’s a brilliant album front to back. And I’m proud to say that it features the track "A Method," which I used in the "Chloe" project. In fact, it's featured in the key scene. And I’m forever grateful to TVOTR. Hats off, gentlemen. Buy this. Now. Go to iTunes and buy it.


Honorable Mention:


THE DECEMBERISTS — "THE CRANE WIFE"
Their first major label effort — often just what a band needs in order to suck. This one manages to escape sucking, and then some.



MORRISSEY — "RINGLEADER OF THE TORMENTORS"
I thought "You Are the Quarry" was great. This one is better. Plus, it has the lyric, "Take anyone from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania just spare me." He hates Pittsburgh because we/they bitch about him. The problem is that we/they bitch about him because he always cancels shows there. But it still makes for a great lyric.



YO LA TENGO — "I AM NOT AFRAID OF YOU AND I WILL BEAT YOUR ASS"
Great CD, but an even better title.



BAND OF HORSES — "EVERYTHING ALL THE TIME"
The track "Funeral" is featured in "I Remember Chloe" because… because… well, because I like it. This is a good'un. Buy it and you'll be happy.



ELVIS COSTELLO — "MY FLAME BURNS BLUE"
I had no choice. It’s Declan McManus and he’s gonna make the list no matter what.

Without whom none of this would have been possible.

I’ve mentioned several times how tremendous Steve Parys, Jeff Garton, and the crew were, but I’ve never talked about the talent in front of the camera.

Eryn Joslyn, Alex Hooper, and Theo Allyn — three actors who made the biggest impact on the project, performance-wise. But more than that, they taught me how to direct. Yeah, I’d directed before, but they taught me more in twelve days than I’d been taught in the years since my time at Pittsburgh Filmmakers.

The point I'm clumsily trying to make is that great actors create great directors.
[Above, Theo, Eryn, and Alex on the set, prepping to shoot "Some Bad Fish."]

The single most important lesson I learned was that actors should learn their lines frontwards, backwards, and every other kind of wards imaginable. Then forget them. Given the option, I’d rather an actor go with his or her intuition than to follow the words I’ve written on the page. Unless, of course, I want mediocre performances. And given the three actors in question, a mediocre performance was highly unlikely. Had we the time, they could have created whole scenes only roughly based on the writing.

Having worked with her closest, my lead actress, Eryn, taught me the most. She knew exactly what questions to ask and how to ask them. She navigated the dialogue with seemingly great ease. And she always brought her own ideas to the the part and the set. In short, she became Chloe. So much so, I don’t even remember what my image of Chloe had been for the six years prior to production. She managed to erase that image and replace it with her own interpretation.

Eryn was the lynch pin to this whole thing and I’ll forever be indebted to her. I’d take her over any actor anywhere. Bar none. She was meant to play the role and the very fact that I found her when I did is beyond belief.

So let me give you some advice: the next time you want to make a movie, give yourself one week to find all of the actors, be dissatisfied with the choices for the lead role, search for a choice you can live with and do so during Fourth of July weekend (when the rest of the world is on vacation), go online to find someone you can live with, convince her you’re not a stalker, audition her, come to realize — within the first thirty seconds — that she’s exactly the actor you’ve been looking for, and give her the role on the spot.

Successful casting is that easy.

Los Angeles is a work of fiction.

Not just because of all of the augmentation, of which there is much. It’s also fiction because so many of the people are synthetic, which is in no way a shock, but it always makes for interesting viewing. Everywhere you go there are people posing as stars and selling themselves – or I should say, their souls. Everybody wants to be somebody. Somebody should tell them that they’re vapid, but somebody’s too busy trying to be somebody. [I think I just pulled a muscle.] There are a lot of people walking around with meaningful pouting on their faces, auditioning for the next U2 album cover. And that’s a lot of pouting — I mean, “The Joshua Tree” alone... The problem, I suspect, is that they don’t realize that “star” isn’t a respectable job. “Actor” is much more respectable and, on very rare occasion, far more lucrative.

Then there are what is referred to as “star-fuckers.” You, me, and most of the free world refers to these individuals as “ass kissers,” [it’s my understanding that the Swiss do not] but, hey, when in Rome, right? In any case, the star-fuckers are the ones who kiss up to Doogie Houser, whom I saw at a restaurant, surrounded by a group of people comprised entirely of the aforementioned type of individual. This said, I, evidently, am not a star-fucker, because I could have cared less. (I think I could take him in a street fight. No, wait— I KNOW I could take him. And if that little bastard would have so much has glanced at me oddly… well, let’s just say he’d have needed that medical degree. Fictitious or otherwise. Neither Harold nor Kumar could have helped him. [I’m like a wildcat. Don’t cross me.]

Fortunately, I’ve been meeting with genuine people. Managers, agents, and directors — people you’d expect to be fake, but, strangely enough, aren’t. It’s possible I could get work out here. To be more accurate, without going into detail — well, avoiding detail like the plague — things have gone unbelievably, insanely, ridiculously and outrageously well.

In fact, I’ve found my calling. And that calling is to be Neil Patrick Harris’ personal assistant.

I start the first of the year.

more jolly in one place than i'm comfortable with.

You never know how you’ll react when confronted with a herd of Santas. But that’s what happened to me this morning. Didn’t expect it to happen, but there they were, standing on W 49th street, all jolly and gay. Some 20 or so Santas [real beards – none of that fake facial hair crap]. There was no visible explanation. They were all just standing there. Looking commercial; looking Christmas.

[I'm not sure, but at one point, I saw one of them go into his pocket, all Travis Bickle-like.]

So. I ask, “What’s up with the Santa thing?” One of them turned, and in a very thick Brooklyn accent said, “Heyyy, fellah. We’uh hee’uh foh Coca-Cola. Some soo’at of promotion.” I almost expected Father Christmas to say, “What that fock’s it to you??”

I’m now frightened by the prospect of him seeing me when I’m sleeping. And so should you.

But I was half-tempted to ask one of them about my Big Wheel. "What's the story with you making those things so cheap? After, like, ten rides, the damn wheel was cracked. And those elves? I say you can 'em. Sonsabitches. Get yourself a tribe of Oompa Loompas."

war, money, and richard nixon.

Cash.

I do love Johnny Cash. Being that my father’s a huge fan, it’s the first music I can recall hearing. Cash is also something I like to do with my checks. Having it around tends to be more enjoyable than not. And, believe me, I’ve been on both sides of the coin.

I mention cash because I’d like to share a position of mine, and I’d love to hear some feedback on it. (Unless you disagree. I mean, you think I really want to hear that?)

Anyhow, here's a thing: why the hell isn’t there just one currency in the world?

In my mind, if we tossed all of the national currencies of the world and embraced one global currency, the earth's population might — MIGHT — engage in fewer wars. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?

To put it into perspective, I gotta go back.

One theory on the war in Iraq — which I happen to agree with — is that it has much to do with Richard Nixon. Nixon was a well-documented asshole. Check the history books. It’s right there, in the pages between Sirhan Sirhan and Squeaky Fromme.

But while President Nixon was an asshole (mind you, given the current administration, he’s starting to look like Chester A. Arthur), he was also one smart bastard. ‘Cause in 1972, he made a deal with OPEC. In that deal, he somehow managed to get the oil guys to agree to use the U.S. dollar for all financial transactions, thereby keeping our greenbacks valuable.

A few years ago? Yeah, Iraq said they were going to use the Euro instead.

But I’m sure it’s all just a coincidence. No, really. I’m sure we’re there to give them the gift of freedom. Like Putin distributing polonium-210.

So — sorry, Bush supporters — the war is about cash. Don't look at me like that. The word "freedom" means about as much as the word "quality." So go back to Narnia and deal.

Okay. Back to my point. Does it not make sense that, if there were one shared currency, the new currency would become education, skill, and man-power? Would it not, in theory, decrease the desire to set up shop in other nations?

I’m just throwing it out there. I may be smoking crack and such an act may plunge us all into a global depression. So, by all means, tell me if you think I am.