Where did week seven go? I drank it.
It’s too fucking bright here for a man with a history of detached retinas and high blood pressure. I wear my shades like a crusader’s helm. The only time it should be this bright is the moment you’re born and the moment you die, and you shouldn’t remember either. I have learned, however, that with the right kind of shaded eyes the sun can induce holy and immaculate mental conceptions. Seriously. It makes every inch of concrete shine like nirvana here. These are epiphany sidewalks, kids. Yesterday I found myself lingering on the corner with upturned face and I realized with fleeting certainty that life is our most beautiful collective dream surrounded on all sides by our worst subconscious fears abstracted in nightmare manifestations like monsters lurking outside the firelight only the monsters are all those people who’ve forgotten their small piece of that mass dream and I knew if I could simply communicate this to the people who passed by we could spread the firelight to the four corners of the Earth and exist in a blissful and perpetual chimeric reverie for the length of a thought which of course spans time, space, and outer dimensions and never truly fades therefore creating its own eternity.
I also solved a really complicated recipe for Drambuie Bolognese.
What’s the real craic? I’ve been writing, writing, writing. The frontrunner in my race to six or more zeroes is a treatment for a supernatural action epic that will have the eyes of a producer upon it when said producer is done wrapping up work on a ridiculously popular TV series. While waiting for word on that, I’ve been putting any and all paying work myself to bed early and with threats of Mississippi discipline and hammering on my spec script. I’m also developing a new project that’s based on an idea I really dig and believe in. It’s a single room concept with as much meat to it as popcorn (at least that’s the goal). When it’s ready I’ll be approaching a fairly mainstream actor who has a penchant for and a history of championing strong indie material with the hopes of getting him attached to it.
I’m actually naïve enough to believe if the material is strong and good and it actually gets read, no further luck or finagling or ass kissing will be required. At least not too much. All I need is someone to place it in front of the shot-caller in question and five minutes of their undiluted attention. If my shit can’t stand on its own legs after that point I blame no one but myself.
In extra-curricular news we hosted a massive throwdown for Earl’s 29th birthday on Friday night (at which time the accompanying picture was taken, included here because that is how I end up staring at my housemate ALL THE TIME). Our event budget didn’t exist, but I worked with what I had. I hand-rolled a hundred tortillas, inflated fifty silver helium balloons, shaved twenty pounds of ice, and hung a “Happy Birthday” sign my mother sent with Earl’s birthday present. The rest was up to whichever dark hedonistic deity covers parties in the valley. Things actually started off slow with a few of Earl’s friends eating tacos and asking me about pro-wrestling. I feared my efforts were too broad in scope and the evening’s needle would bob gently in the mellow spectrum.
About the time a trio of hot chicks made the scene bearing multiple, multiple bottles of booze things began to turn and the party ended up in a decently high orbit. In point of fact it was just this side of a barn-burning, orgy-inducing, alcohol-dripping blow-out and I was highly pleased. The final damage tally included a shelf ripped out of the wall, a broken toilet lid, and half-a-dozen zen rocks toppled. For no good reason.
It’s not a party until zen gets its ass kicked.
