Rather than go into great detail about why it’s been so long since I’ve written in here, I’ll just launch into a story about Sirry and a squirrel.

Sirry’s been sick for the past couple days. On Friday I go in to Rocket to work the first couple hours of Sara’s shift. When I get there, Jeff tells me that there’s no one coming in for Sirry. She’s at home and apparently feels like a wet rag that’s been run over by a large van. So I end up staying the whole night, even after Sara comes in. I actually try to leave once or twice, but Sara won’t let me. It ends up being a good thing, becuase it gets busy at the end of the night.

Anyway, CUT TO Saturday. I’m working again. Sirry calls me. I expect her to do the usual, “Thanks for working for me; I owe you one” routine, but instead she croaks into the phone, “There’s a squirrel trapped in the house!”

It seems she’s housesitting for Boss while he’s away in sunny Iceland. She goes by his house to water plants, stack mail and make certain the house is still standing. But today she finds that a squirrel has been running amok inside the house. It has chewed the doorframe, the window sills and everything else it could get its teeth into. Sirry surprises it mid-gnaw and it bolts into a little compartment in the fireplace. Now she’s calling me and demanding, “What do I do?” She can hear it moving around in the little hole, but she can’t see it and couldn’t reach it if she wanted to. She says she tried spraying Raid in the hole, but it only made the squirrel chirp and squeak for a moment.

So I tell her to block the hole. She is horrified by that idea. “I don’t want it to die!” Well, then stop spraying Raid at it, I tell her. And I’m not suggesting she starve it. I just think if she traps it, she can call Animal Control and let them come over and spray Raid at it. She says she’ll call me back.

She calls me back in an hour. She tells me that when she realized that the squirrel was hiding in a hole in the fireplace, she thought of smoking the squirrel out. So she tells me that she lit some paper ablaze (having obtained some from the pile of junkmail) and shoved it in the hole. The squirrel chirped and squeaked for a moment. Then it exploded out of the hole and flew out the front door.

Crisis terminated.

And I’m being figurative when I say the squirrel flew out the front door. You know that, right?

Okay, this is to be yet another mundane post, but I just wanted to point out that I’ve switched to Blogger’s new system of commenting. I was using an independently created php script to handle comments, but this is better. It creates a new page for each post that exists separately from the blog itself. Kinda cool, actually. I like it a lot.

That’s the good news.

The bad news is that all–and I mean ALL–of the old comments are now gone. So if anyone said something particularly witty and/or wonderful in those pages, let me know. I’ve got them all saved to a special file. You can have them back.

Cheers.

The new mix is finally up. I recorded it back on Memorial Day, but I hadn’t gotten around to posting the file. It’s a solid collection of five excellent tracks. I wanted to revisit some of the stuff I was spinning three years ago, back when I first got my turntables. In fact, I wasn’t spinning these tracks back then so much as I was demolishing them. We just hadn’t had the practice, and life was a series of train wrecks. I guess I just wanted to prove to myself that I’d gotten a little better since then.

Enjoy.

In spite of all the silliness and activity in which I find myself of late, I write feverishly. As reported earlier, Blood & Dust has been in the hands of several, and has received glowing reviews from everyone (except those cats at Scott Free, who gave it a hard pass–liked the writing, but I guess it’s just not the sort of thing either Ridley or Tony wants to direct.) Mosaic and Maple Shade in particular want to see more.

It takes me six weeks to write a seven page follow-up to Blood & Dust. Despite the interest in some parties (whose names shall remain Cristy) I decide not to entitle it Blood & Spurs. I call it Blood & Mist in order to underscore its early America setting, as in, “far back in the mists of ancient time…” Edgar reads it last week and gives it a far more glowing review than I expect. He puts it this way, “This is to Blood & Dust the way The Chronicles of Riddick is to Pitch Black.” He’s referring to the sheer scale of the story, which spans 160 plus years of American history. I think he plans to send the treatment over to Maple Shade and Mosaic this week. And now work begins on Blood & Glass, which brings all of the surviving characters of the first two into present day Los Angeles. It won’t take me six weeks this time, as I plan to sketch it out in broader strokes.

Interesting tangential note: Sandrine has proven to be a pain in the ass. Her role is relegated to flashbacks in Dust. In Mist she’s the primary villain as well as the main love interest (it’s complicated.) In Glass she’s going to return and cause even more havoc. But it’s not the character herself which gives me headaches. It’s her name.

In the current draft of Dust, her name is SANDRINE BONNEAU. This surname appears by accident in some places in my notes as BONNAIRE. I had thought I’d made it up, but I completely forgot that Sandrine Bonnaire actually exists. She’s an accomplished French actress. Maybe that’s why I had “disguised” the name as Bonneau in later drafts. Still, it’s too close for comfort, so last week I set about finding a suitable replacement.

I narrow the chouce down to five possibilities. LEDUC, LAZURE, ROCHON, ARESENAULT and CAISSE. I like the rhythm of the four syllable name, So Sandrine Leduc has appeal. But visually, it displeases. I like Rochon a lot. Rochon Americanizes as RUSH, which I think has a cool drug connotation–always good when dealing with vampires. For a while I imagine that in Glass, folks refer to Sandrine Rochon as “Rush,” or even weirder, “The Rush.” But the word also has a Canadian Power Trio connotation. I decide to avoid that. Arsenault has too many syllables, I decide. But what about Caisse? I like the look of it. And I think that the rhythm and sounds have a certain power to them. For the duration of writing the treatment, Caisse is the name of choice. In fact, I even submit it to Edgar with that name in place.

But As much as I like it, I decide that it does no good to have an ancient, powerful vampire with a last name that translates as “cash register.”

Back to the drawing board. I try for a couple of literal names. BONCOEUR lasts for about five minutes. Sandrine Goodheart. Suitably contrary. Then BONSANG, which translates to “goodblood.” But I’m not confident about pronouncing either one of those in a pitch meeting, so I cross those off the list. For some reason, DORE (two syllables) appeals to me for a while. Then BROUSSEAU. LEJEAUNE for even longer, because I love the idea of having her name mean Sandrine The Young.

My final answer? ROUSSEAU. I know, it’s a bit more run of the mill, but it has its own set of connotations. Obviously there’s the Jean Jeacques connection. But I also like that it sounds like the Italian “rosso.” Sandrine The Red is a pretty cool moniker. And it has a similar feel to Sandrine Bonneau, to which I’ve gotten entirely accustomed.

SANDRINE ROUSSEAU.

End of tangent. End of post.

I wake up this morning at nine after a solid night of sleep. I had dreamed that Boss gave me a check today. In fact, in the dream, he gives me three checks. One is for $750. That’s a typical paycheck from Boss. The next two are for about $650,000 each. I dunno why he’s giving me this kind of dough, but I spend the rest of the dream knowing that I’m a millionaire. And though somewhere in my mind I suspect that this is all about to evaporate, the emotion is quite real. I remember an overwhelming sense of relief. So as I wake up and dig sleep from under my eyelids I remember that my rent check went out yesterday. I dropped it in the mailbox. Rent is always a matter of timing, and often I have to mail it out before I’ve actually received the money I’ll need to cover it.

I roll out of bed the moment I realize that it’s nine o’clock. I have to throw together something for Boss to look at regarding icelandersontheweb.com. We’re supposed to meet in the morning about it. At this meeting, which is to take place at his “office” in Bel-Air, he’s going to give me that check so it doesn’t bounce.

It takes me about an hour to throw together this sample page. He hasn’t called me, so I call him and get his voicemail. I’d really like to make it over to the Grove today and catch the opening day of Harry Pothead and the Prisoner of Zenda, but since I have time to kill and Boss hasn’t called, I squeeze in a final revision of the Blood & Mist treatment and mail it off to Edgar.

It’s 12:30 now. No word from Boss. The movie starts at 1:15. I jump in the car and head down, calling Ryan (to see if he wants to join me and feed his slightly creepy crush on Emma Watson) and Sara (to see what she’s up to–looking for a grill for Louis.) While I’m talking to her I spot one of two Space Invaders known to inhabit upper Fairfax. It’s sitting above Canter’s. Then I call Boss, whom I finally get ahold of. He’s at his chiropractor and has changed his mind about meeting in the AM.

No kidding.

He says he might not make it over to meet me at Rocket, but that he’ll call me within half an hour to let me know when we can get together. I tell him I may not have my phone on, but to leave me a message. I turn off my phone, pull my car into the Grove, plunk down some cash for a movie ticket and settle in for more than two hours of Hogwarts bliss.

When the movie’s over I realize I cannot find my sunglasses anywhere. I search under the chair, in the cushion (such as it is), my pockets, the floor, the concession stand, the projection booth… They’re just gone. This puts me in a slightly sour mood, which is exacerbated by my hunger. So squinting, I walk out into the daylight and check my phone. no call from Boss. What a shock. I stroll over to the Farmer’s Market, bumping into Joy Ozo and her sister on the way. It is wonderful to see her, but they’re headed over to a Craig Kilborn taping, so they can’t dally.

Later, I’ll kick myself for not bumming a couple bucks off her.

I order a piece of pizza to eat. Normally, I can avoid the pizza when I’m at the Farmer’s Market. But today the hunger gnaws at my innards, distorts my grip on reality. It takes forever to arrive because they have to make it right then. As I sit down among all the tables and pigeons and aged foreigners and bite down, the cheese and meat inflict third-degree burns on my tongue and mouth. Smarting, hungry and irritated, I wait for it to cool a little. And then it occurs to me that I just used my last three dollars to buy this pizza. How am I going to get my car out of the parking lot?

Since I’m at the Farmer’s Market, before I head back, I make a feeble attempt to look for the elusive Space Invader hiding there. I do not find him. Heading back to my car, I try to remember how much change is in my ashtray. I’ve got sixty cents in my pocket. I’ll need $1.40. I don’t think I’ve got anything left in there. I raided it when I did my laundry last time.

My ashtray is full of pennies and nickels. There are several dollars in Australian money there as well. No good. I have to find an ATM. At the foot of the escalators I find one. I shove my card in the slot and agree to allow the bank to gouge me for $2.25 (this is the Grove, after all.) But no cash comes out. I check the slot. Nothing. That’s weird. I look at the receipt. It tells me that I’m a victim of error #018. Insufficient Balance.

WTF?? I’ve got at least two hundred in there now. Possibly more. So I call Wells Fargo. The friendly voice says, “Okay. Account balance.” I wait. “Your account balance is: overdrawn seven hundred forty one dollars.”

I stop. I stare at my phone. How is this possible? I dropped my rent check into the mail yesterday. And into one of those neighborhood boxes, not those post office chutes that drop the mail directly into the hold of a waiting plane. Clearly my landlord, Nathan, recived the check and sprinted to the nearest bank.

Good God. Now what? I’m trapped at the Grove. I just need a couple bucks, but how on earth am I going to get it? Do I panhandle? Is there any hope I can find Joy again? No, no, that was half an hour ago. Should I find some pay phones and check coin returns? Should I look for dropped dollars? I call Sara to see if she has any suggestions. She’s not far away, and offers to come get me or give me some money. I realize that I guess I really don’t need a solution. I just need to vent. I hang up and look around.

I begin asking questions. “What happens,” I ask the woman at the movie theater info desk, “if I drive up to the parking lot attendant without the money to pay for parking?”

She looks at me. “You know, I’ve always wondered that.”

The Grove’s concierge has this suggestion. “Use your ATM card,” he says.

“That’s not an option,” I say.

“Then use your Visa card to get a cash advance,” he says.

“That’s also not an option,” I say. My Visa’s serving as overdraft protection for the checking account. Fat lot of good that’s doing.

He thinks. Then he says, “Okay, use your American Express card to buy a gift certificate for the Grove. Use it to go get a coffee. Spend the chenge on the parking fee.”

He’s a bloody genius.

He says, “I can sell one to you right here.”

My trusty Amex card to the rescue. I gamely purchase the smallest one they sell. Ten dollars. With a growing headache and a plummeting mood, I make my way back to the Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf. I wait in a stifling line and order a small coffee and wave my gift certificate. The Coffee Bean lady tells me they don’t accept Grove certificates. The Coffee Bean is part of the Farmer’s Market. Apparently, by crossing the little avenue where FAO Schwartz used to be I’d stepped over the boundary.

Now I’m irritated. I step back across Chackpoint Charlie, climb up to the third floor of Barnes & Noble and buy a coffee there. They have to have a conference before they accept the certificate. Apparently they don’t get many of those for coffee. But finally I get my change and head back to my car. I’m so irritated that when the coffee starts splashing onto my hands through a bad seal at the cup seam I simply drop it in the nearest garbage can. I’m not in the mood.

By now, the fare has increased to three dollars, which I pay, happy to at last be free of the Grove. Curious, I ask the attendant, a young guy, what would have happened if I didn’t have the cash. He shrugs and says something like this: “Uh, I have to get up and like, get your license number, and, like, it takes a while…”

“And then…? What, I get to pay later?”

“Supposedly, I guess. Yeah. You have to pay.”

I drive off. He hadn’t answered my question very well. To hear him tell it, if I were to arrive at the booth without proper funds he would have to write something down and that takes a while, which would mean having to endure the annoyance of drivers waiting behind. I might even be made to pay somehow.

It is now five o’clock. I have just enough time. to get home, wash the scent of rich people off me and head in to work. On the way back up Fairfax, I see the second of the two Space Invaders while sitting at the light at Beverly. But I’m so tired, I barely have the energy to call Sara and tell her.

But I do. Because it’s a Space Invader.

Work is a whole new post that I don’t have the energy to tackle tonight. I console myself knowing that at least today I finished the Blood & Mist treatment. If anything might serve as an escape hatch from all this, it’s the craft.

Tuning out now.

In an effort to bolster my income, I’ve decided to sell off some of the movie stills and posters I’ve got stashed in various boxes. This ismy first foray back into the Ebay seller’s market since I unloaded my laser/DVD player three years ago. For starters, I’m getting rid of my Miller’s Crossing presskit. The design is okay. I’ll revise it as I go along.

Total cost of listing: $.65

MILLER’S CROSSING.

You’ll notice that the tense changes in the previous blog entry about two thirds through: past tense to present tense. I’ve done that on purpose. From now on all posts will be in present tense.

Unless I forget.