Back after a long shift at Rocket with Sara. Depressed as fuck. I�m gonna skip out on the writing I would have liked to do (something more down to earth and real) and just plow through more of Strange Angels. I’ve got a lot to do there. I’m listening to Tosca�s Suzuki right now. It�s helping a little. And the tequila�s helping some as well (while giving me heartburn.) It�s just one of those moods where sitting and talking to someone about shit would help a lot, but at the same time, tracking someone down to talk to would be like advertising the depression, which is, itself, depressing, so fuck that.

Most people made it in early to Rocket to drop off their flicks today. When Sara and I came in to work, Ryan and Mike were finishing up eight hours of killer returns. The early part of the evening was annoyingly busy, but by late shift, most of the customers were people I tend to think of as pretty cool, meaning people whose names I know and who tend to make pretty cool conversation. Mercedes, Gina, Jeffrey, Alexandra, Kevin, and a host of others. We threw Trading Places on the tube, then Trainspotting, and then finished off the night with the thoroughly depressing Less Than Zero. Actually, Sara found it more depressing than I did, but since I was already depressed, it just kinda rolled off my back.

On depression…

I’m actually pretty depressed anyway, these days. The first thing to go is the sense of humor. Maybe it’s a temporary thing, but my laughter during the past week has been of the more weary type. Not writing much, not getting too much exercise. Hating my day job. But the good thing, I’m reminded, is that depression can sometimes be a fertile ground for the imagination. Cirsumstance stomps on my right brain with studded boots, but perhaps the resultant gooey mess will reshape itself into something robust and sinewy. I’ve already got some glimpses into another project, something strange and independent. Something along the lines of the novel that I always imagine someday I’ll write. It’s the thing I call Blush, and though I’ve claimed it’ll be about the Lisa Smith farce of a few years ago, it’s best if I just throw all that nonsense into the blender and dip my quill into the resultant sludge.

I dunno. Strange Angels limps towards completion. I think it’ll be good. But I’m jonesing for a new direction. I’m tired of writing the action-adventure thing. Maybe it’s time to fuck with things a little bit.

Sirry called me at about one, while I banged my head against my keyboard with fruitless abandon. She’s sick and asked if I could come in early so she could go home. dragged myself in to Rocket at about three-thirty. I didn’t leave until after midnight. Jeff was happy to announce that Sarah Thompson had been in. She’s been coming in fairly often of late, but she’s just so darn cute, we can’t help but take notice.

Mark’s meeting with Vic went well, it turns out. He filled me in on the details when he came in. That news came as a relief. Still, Mark was down tonight, both physically and mentally. And he didn’t seem to improve when I let him put in Young Guns II. It wasn’t until the end of the night, when we played a Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds video collection and “Stagger Lee” began that Mark perked up.

Oh, and Rai came in as well. Rai, the effervescent breath fo fresh air that she is, breezed through at about nine and joyfully told us that she just snagged a part in a movie as a vampire queen. They’re shooting the film in Hearst Castle and she just got fitted with fangs today. She said she also gets to wear red contacts.

I love Rai.

The only other actor sighting of note was Erica Leerhsen, although even though I helped her look for movies about autism, I hadn’t the faintest clue who she was until after she left and Mark said, “That was cool.”

Sara called at the end of the night, but I was too busy. I tried to call her back after we closed, while I took care of menial nonsense, but she didn’t answer.

Sad.

Suddenly, I’m very afraid of my Sony 52x Cd Burner…

PowerLabs High Speed Exploding CDs!

I found this in a box this afternoon. I had no idea it was there. I don’t know if we were autographing, comparing signatures, studying scriptography or just messing around, but it’s an interesting little time capsule item. I’m actually still in touch with a couple of these people.

Movies Twin, 1985

I want a phone. Not just any phone. A very specific kid of phone. and I certainly don’t need this phone. I merely want it. Luckily, it hasn’t been invented (as far as I know) so I needn’t worry about spending money I don’t have to. It’s an old fashioned phone. It looks like this:

…but it’s cordless. In other words, you have a phone base somewhere (in the little phone cubby by the door) and this thing is the remote unit. It’s cool. It’s got a rotary dial. You carry it around and talk on it. You feel pleasantly old-fashioned. If someone knows whether this thing exists, drop me a line. I need–er, want one.

This morning I got in my car, wheeled onto the 110 North and headed for Hollywood. On the way I listened to Ira Glass and the latest installment of This American Life. Today, he culled his entire show from the classified pages of the Chicago Sun-Times. One of the segments focused on a man whose black poodle, Isis, had been stolen. Isis had been destined for greatness. He had intended to breed her with a Shih-Tzu and raise a cluster of “Shih-doodles.” But some mysterious woman allegedly made off with Isis, so he was advertising in the Sun-Times pleading for her return. Another segment followed an attempt to fuse an actual band out of several eclectic musicians, all of whom had advertised in the classifieds. They performed a fine rendition of “Rocket Man.” The segment of the show that had me gripping the steering wheel in apprehension came in between those two. It focused on two people hunting for jobs. Neither had been very successful. They had their reasons, but they were having a tough time of it. One of them had been hunting for FIVE YEARS. And here I was, driving to Hollywood to meet with Llyr over breakfast at Canter’s and talk about what it’s like to get a job in Los Angeles. It unnerved me a little. But rather than take it as a bad sign, I understood that someone had just held up a picture: you react to this because this is only what you imagine yourself to be. But it’s nopt you. It’s that little demon who lives in your head. That demon feeds on despair. That little demon would like you to fail. That little demon’s name is Morty.

I met with Llyr. I ate scrambled eggs with lox. And a bagel. Then I went and hung out with Jules while she cleaned her dresser. We walked Penelope around the block (though I don’t know how she fell asleep the way I pushed her little stroller roughshod over the heaving sidewalk.) And then I had a fine cup of coffee and a happy-face cookie with the smart and attractive Bobbi Kay.

More from the CPE Journal, just to fill up space. I’ve been busy writing again. Characters are begining to take shape. IN a week or so, they’ll be able to stand up on shaky legs and begin to move about on their own, presumably in search of a story…

:: CPE Journal Part 6 ::
Monday, May 2 1994

Still no music. Today I operate on some strange, mystical power that defies a lack of sleep. I’ve made three trips up the hill: one early-morning one to bring up pages from Lee & Jeanne, one for a lunch delivery from El Pollo Norte�o, and one other one to deliver supplies–and I’ll probably have to go up again later. Susan called about All-Girl productions while I played with Mary’s useless but fun fractal software. It really sounds like a porn outfit. Cristy’s at a doctor’s appointment. She should be back soon.

Ho hum…

The film seems to be in what Fred Caruso calls, “a holding pattern,” awaiting Terry Khan’s draft and then Tommy Lee Jones’ approval/refusal.

Wednesday, May 4 1994

Cristy is sick today. I’ve got a strange condition that feels like all my energy is preparing to draw back, like water retreating from a beach before a terrific wave. Only I don’t know if that wave is coming. I think I just need some sushi.

Two unusual coincidences. Last night: Larry gave me a script to read, Sex and Sunsets, based on the book by Tim Sandlin. I think it’s the same book that Jamy (ex-fiance) was talking about adapting more than a year ago but couldn’t because she was lacking the desire, interest and experience to do so. I’ll have to tell her. She’ll be intrigued.

The second coincidence came moments later when Larry put a videocassette in the VCR. It was Jade of Death by Gilbert Po, an eight minute student film made back around 1990. I had seen this tape before. My friend, Mimi Dawson, an energetic, enterprising (and beautiful) film person came by the San Rafael, 2nd floor four-man suite (my flat) with her friend Gil to ask if they could watch the film on our nice sound system. Somehow, that film traveled a very circuitous route, dropping on doorsteps around Hollywood (if Gil was lucky) circulating through channels of contacts, friends and casual acquaintances until it ended up exactly here.

Strange. Almost as strange as Wanda’s sister living with Germaine Temple in New Mexico.

Finished typing a new set of pictures for Maher (NIN tromping through my brain.)

Punched holes in various treatments, coverage, etc. to be filed for Teresa.

Answered the telephone periodically (Steve Breimer, Billy Blake, Tak Fujimoto, etc.)

I have to pick up Joanne Duncan, the traveling notary, in front of the Art Museum. Seems her car is taking a leave of absence so her “travels” depend on her clients.