Blogger seems to be back up. And Democrats are doing a lot of Chicken Little. That’s understandable. The Republicans would be doing the same thing had Kerry won. But wouldn’t it have been great if Kerry had had a little more backbone? I mean just look at what we could’ve accomplished (taken from Kerry’s planner):
Oh well. Here’s to four more “nucular” years.
P.S. The agenda was really obtained here, from Comedy Central’s writers.
Blogger Bryan Frank is in Washington, DC this week, burning the midnight oil. He’s battling sleep deprivation to help cover the political prize fight for Channel 9. I know you all check in on his cool behind-the-scenes musing as often as you can, but if you haven’t made it there in the past few days, check it out.
“There is science, logic, reason; there is thought verified by experience. And
then there is California.” —Edward Abbey
The nightmares actually do come to the house of dreams last night. Not the wake-up-screaming variety that Sara says she had the night before, but more the mundane breed. I dream of emotional situations I just do NOT want to be in. I wake up tired. I drag myself through a morning routine, plug some breakbeat into my head and trip out the door to vote.
My polling place is at the fire station on Gardner. I walk in past the lounging firemen–er, firepeople–and show my ID to the first of several eager poll workers. I sign the book. The next woman, who’s tripping on my blue fingernails hands me a practice ballot to show me how the doohickey works (I voted for Abraham Lincoln) and the last woman hands me the real McCoy.
When a polling booth opens up I do the thing. I’ve researched the initiatives. I’ve done my homework. I’ve learned what I need to know, but the process still requires concentration. I realize, as I push that little dot-maker into the various holes, just how easy it would be to make a mistake. So when a noisy, affable New Yorker drops in to cast his vote, I find myself distracted.
“What’s your name, Baby?” he asks one of the women.
“Katy,” she replies.
“KatyKatyKatyKatyKatyKatyKatyKatyKatyKatyKaty,” he says. “Katy, do you have water? I need some water. Stat.” Then he adds, “You know what stat means? It means yesterday.”
I have to plug the breakbeat back in. He goes off to find the water he craves. When I finish making my little dots, I drop the ballot into a black box. I’m sure it’s one black box among millions across the country. And I wonder if the black boxes are indestructible. That is, when the crash comes, will they remain intact? Will someone be able to look through them and figure out what caused the plane to go down?
The man next to the black box is small and Russian. He holds out a sticker. “Is okay?” he asks.
“Of course.”
He sticks it to my shirt. I voted.
I leave the polling place. The women at the tables are discussing the etymology of “stat.” I’m off to find that donut.
If I have nightmares tonight, it’ll be thanks to tomorrow’s impending activities. I wish I didn’t have to sling movies all day. It’s gonna be one of those days that I’d rather spend near the radio with a friend and a six-pack of beer. More than anything, I’m afraid of a long, absurd, legally overwrought election.
I’ve printed up the L.A. Weekly endorsements, which I’ll use for help in choosing all those people running for offices I never even knew existed. I’ve also got my voter booklet. I’ve got my polling location. All I have left to do is wake up and find that fire station.
And hey, did you know that National Donut Month passed? I didn’t have a single donut. I vote I should find one of those tomorrow, too.
Now I vote I should go to bed.
Halloween (and autumn in general) marks a season steeped in music. I still think of Halloween ’93 every time I hear Mazzy Star, so it’s only fitting that my current Halloween obsession reminds me of them. The new self titled album from The Concretes came out back in June, but I finally picked it up this week. They’re poppy, they’re upbeat, they’re perfect for autumn. Check out these two tracks. Then go buy the cd.
Sipping on echinacea tea. I don’t love it, but there’s a psychosomatic thing going on here. I’m a little bit sick. It makes me feel better.
Another Halloween comes and goes. For once I skip the horned demon thing and have a different sort of fun with makeup. Recalling Helen Shaver in The Believers, I build myself a little spider’s nest on my face using wax, latex, makeup and, of course, little plastic spiders. The effect is a little too horrifying for some people, and I keep forgetting that it’s on my face. One customer at Amoeba tried to tell me what movie he was looking for, but had to wait until he stopped laughing. I almost had to find someone else to help him.
Amoebites dressed up en masse. The most popular costume belonged to Hiland, who dressed up as Annie, complete with frilly socks and color-perfct wig.
Little Orphan Trannie
I haven’t written in over five days. That amount of dead time makes me very cranky. I did, however, have a conversation with my manager last night, the upshot of which is that I really need to finish this damned rewrite of Strange Angels and be done with it. Then I’ll finally have time to spread out all of my other ideas and catalogue them. He and I are both interested in getting me out of the spec market and a little more into the world of script pitching. I’ve easily got a dozen ideas ready for development. I need to organize them, work out some basic plots and file them into my holster.
The only thing standing in my way at this point is a web page I’ve got to throw together for Boss about Icelandic poet, Stein Steinarr. But progress has slowed a little, because of the four thousand fonts I have at my disposal, I can’t select one that suits the guy’s name. Stein Steinarr. Poet. Icelandic.
I need one of those poetic Northland fonts.
Allmusic gives the new Nick Cave a fine review. The packaging is very nice. I might have to actually buy this one.
Blogger’s back, as most of you probably realize. Seems they had some network trouble. A ghost in the machine, perhaps. I’ve posted the PJ Harvey entry, as it was written–the same cotton-eared, sticky, post-midnight prose that sprang from my fingers to the sound of last night’s drumming rain.
Tomorrow I head up to Santa Barbara for the night. On Friday I continue on up to San Luis Obispo. Then on Saturday I race back down to LA in time for my shift at Amoeba. This weekend promises to be intense.
The first time pick up a PJ Harvey disc in the summer of �93. Rid Of Me. I buy it because of the cover, in which PJ swings a soaking wet arc of hair over her head. That, and a good review I read somewhere. And over the years, as every new album comes out, I find myself digging into it in a unique, organic way. Each is a different kind of journey. Each has its own set of memories. And in its own way, each insinuaties itself into my life, weaving through the fabric of the days. To Bring You My Love accompanies me on the treks to Monterey in 1995 when Lisa and I maintain our first long distance relationship. Is This Desire? tracks me through the dissolution of that same relationship in 1998. Stories From the City, Stories From the Sea keeps pace with me on the commutes to San Luis Obispo, back when I was houseless and trying to figure out what to do next. And now Uh Huh Her. Los Angeles. June 2004. The Letter. Pocket Knife. The Slow Drug. You Come Through. It�s You. The Darker Days of Me & Him.
I sneak out of work an hour early to meet with Llyr. As the skies threaten rain, we head for the Wiltern and catch an evening with Polly Jean. The show, as one might guess, is amazing:
–I spot James, one of my coworkers, and get him to join us. He�s seen PJ Harvey five times. The last time he ended up backstage at the Henry Fonda Theater with another coworker, and a handful of music celebrities, getting stoned with members of Black Heart Procession. I want those memories.
–She kicks things off with To Bring You My Love.
–A teeny girl tries to drag her boyfriend into the non-existent space in front of Llyr and me and James. We don�t let her in. We CAN�T let her in. The couple next to us is left to contend with her. Numerous times during the course of the show she shows her approval by letting fly a blood-curdling scream. It sounds horrible. I tell Llyr that it sounds like she�s getting stabbed. Llyr tells me she hopes she�s getting stabbed. Llyr has a low tolerance for weirdos.
–PJ dedicates a Fall tune to John Peel, who died today. The tune was written by The Fall’s guitarist, who comes onstage to play it with the band. That same raucous, diminutive PJ fan spends the entire tune screaming the news of John Peel�s death into her cell phone, completely missing the piece. Llyr wants to elbow her in the face. I’m finding it hard to believe she even know who John Peel is. The whole thing is just too amusing.
–She plays all of the tunes mentioned above from the newest album. She closes with the last one. Early in the performance of that tune, which is glorious and slow, something crackles, the sound cuts out, the lights come on, but only for a few seconds, and then we�re back in full pulse. PJ adjusts the lyrics: “And no neurosis/…No power cuts/ And no sadness.” The crowd goes nuts.
We file out of the Wiltern into the night, ears ringing, to find that the sky is weeping.
Still bringing my computer back up to speed. That and the writing devour time like ravenous demons. When I come back, I’ll tell you about how I helped a woman get her car out of harm’s way. Almost.
In the meantime, check out this chilled out vibe by Eastern Sun and John Kelley, from the Groove Closet compilation.
Everyone’s getting sick. Ryan’s sick. Sara’s sick. Dave’s sick. Maryann’s sick. Everyone. I don’t get sick, myself. Not in a physical way. I express it cybernetically. My computer gets sick. I’m telling you this because you need to know why I’ve been silent for three days. I run a pretty tight ship here in the Hollywoodland workspace, but somehow, this little bug got through and rendered my system worthless.
Here’s a picture of Windows reinstalling.
I’ll be back to my usual inanities soon.
Click this link before the site goes away. Two screenwriters had many people fooled into believing that actor Nick Nolte keeps an online diary. Nick has since flung a cease and desist order their way. I thought it was a little weird, but it seems weirder that someone would go to such effort as a joke.
I love this photo. I took it in Santa Barbara. There’s an annual pumpkin patch that opens on Hollister Avenue. It’s kind of special. It’s just like every other pumpkin patch I’ve ever seen, but we had good times there. On this particular day I went with some friends and took my camera. This little girl was wandering among the mini-gourds, having selected one for herself.
This girl is about eleven or twelve years old now. I wonder who she is?
–Rain falls. Nick Bracegirdle supplies an appropriate noise to accompany. Though the album is a good four years old, this is me, catching up.
–The Elvis Costello in-store is well attended. We avoid the numbers achieved by Rilo Kiley. I hear Nick Harcourt say yesterday morning on MBE that Costello is in their studios that morning, but he makes no mention of the Amoeba appearance. That sort of radio silence keeps us from getting overwhelmed.
–Two women contact me (attractive and interesting friends from long ago) whom I haven’t talked to in a while. Both of them use the word “howdy” in the subject line. I wonder if they happened to both see this picture?
–Today is my Friday. And I can feel it. Last night I’m too tired to stay up past one, but sleep is fitful, and Sara calls me at two. We talk for an hour, then still unable to sleep, I get up and watch an episode of Red Dwarf. Finally, I crash at four. Nine thirty sees me up and making coffee. I’ve got to write, so caffeine is imnperative.
Just a quick note to confirm that yes, Elvis Costello is performing in-store this evening at Amoeba. It’s a secret, so don’t tell anyone. We’re trying to avoid another store-paralyzing Rilo Kiley situation.
uh…so why am I posting this here? Because only about eight people ever really check into this blog and many of them are out of town. If any of you are Elvis Costello fans and are in the vicinity of Cahuenga and Sunset at six o’clock, you know what to do.
blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, MUSIC, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, MOVIES, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, SCREENWRITING, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, STUFF, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, ME.
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