Happy New Year!

I can never remember how to say it in Italian, is it "Buon Anno Felice?" No, apparently it's "Felice Anno Nuovo!" Magari!

In Spanish, "¡Próspero Año Nuevo!"

Angel says in Afrikaans, "Gelukkige Nuwe Jaar!"

To my friends online, to the people that read my blog, to the people who stop by my blog, because a search engine misled them, and last, but certainly not least, to my shop customers, Happy New Year!

Happy Blogiversary, Katie!

My Best Online Friend Forever in the world's blogiversary is today! Oh, but they grow up so fast! Drop by and wish your best!

Official Clothier Of...

Sorry that I've been absent from the world of blogging, newer and better video crack is the culprit.

So I think it was just after Christmas, that the Missus got a Newport News catalog in the mail. She holds it up to me and points out the model on the cover and the back.

The Missus: Look at her, she looks like Teri Hatcher.
Me: Yeah, well, that's probably why she got the job. Remember that model that you pointed out a decade ago that looked like Cindi Crawford?

She flips through the pages.

The Missus: I don't really like the clothes they have...they're okay. It's the other women that really like these clothes.
Me: The other women?

At this point I'm thinking, "the other women? As in, 'Newport News, the official clothier of the other women and mistresses of the world."

Me: The other women?
The Missus: No, the other women at work.

Well, That Explains Most Of It

The Jewish Journal L.A. had an interview with screenwriter Eric Roth, the scribe of "The Good Shepard." At the end of the interview, he talks about the "Postman," which he had a co-credit for...

"I had written that as a satire for Tom Hanks many years before the movie got made -- well before 'Forrest Gump,'" Roth recalled. "That's how I met Tom, through 'The Postman.' It was not meant to be taken seriously. "Later, Kevin Costner developed it, and he made a more earnest version," he continued. "And the guy who rewrote me went on to win an Oscar, Brian Helgeland ['L.A. Confidential']. So it goes to show that sometimes things just don't work."

Yeah, "earnest version," as in "Ernest Goes To The Post-Apocalypse."

Happy Holidaze

Merry Christ-Hann-Kwanza...er, Happy Blogmas.

Worst Gift Ever

The folks that brought you Chia Pet, have now created Chia Cat Grass. This is wrong on so many levels. First, they claim that it keeps cats away from hazardous houseplants...um, no, you just gave Mr. Whiskers carte blanche to chow down on all houseplants, once he's done with the so-called "Cat Grass."

Second, look at the thing. Sylvester and Tweety. Cats (and Becka) don't like Tweety, but they hate Sylvester even more. He's everything that's wrong with cartoon cats, an anti-role model. That lisp? No, there's something wrong with people that lisp, but have you ever heard a cat lisp?

Meowth, meowth...

No, of course not and when your cat knocks over a vase, it's not an accident. He's really trying to tell you that he doesn't want you to run that stupid cartoon anymore.

Plus, cats don't like the fact that Sylvester never gets it done. Tweety has to be the slowest bird capable of flight, ever. C'mon, even three-legged cats get it done after something like twenty tries in each of the scores of cartoons that Sylvester tried to take Tweety down. Sylvester is the scourge of cats everywhere and it's not the "man," or men in general that are keeping cats down, it's bad examples of feline life like Sylvester.

Third? You know and I know that Mr. Whiskers wants catnip, why are you trying to make your cat go cold turkey? Go ahead, try and wean him off the catnip and on to the "Cat Grass." You'll just get shredded furniture and a squishy surprise in one, if not all, of your shoes for your little kitty intervention.

Holiday Standards

Just in time for the holidays! From the people that brought you the "Hillary Duff and Metallica Christmas," as well as the "Up With People, Featuring Dr. Dre Summer Tour '06," comes "Write Procrastinator Reinterprets The Classic Holiday Songs."*

Featuring...

Oh Christmas Pee
Oh Christmas Pee
The bums leave you in front of my garage

You get...

Yuppies roasting over an open fire
Pit bulls nipping at your nose

And also...

He knows when you are sleeping
But mostly when you're sleeping
Because he's stalking you

Plus, his exclusive rendition of

On the first day of Christmas,
My true love pointed out to me
Nicole Richie driving into a tree

Not to mention...

Silent site, holy shite
All pyschos linked to My Space
I have nothing to protect me, but mace
From Dawn, Jay Nutso and that schizo, Grace
Jesus, a restraining order dearth
Jesus, I've got a restraining order dearth


*Not an actual album, you really don't want me to sing.

The Closest You'll Come To Seeing Me Cry

I don't know the specifics, but all I do know is that it makes me incredibly sad. An author named Tribe, gave anyone who had Internet access and wanted to write crime fiction, a little place on the web to showcase their work. All was fine, all was good. I was ecstatic myself. It was the closest I've ever come to being published and for amateurs like myself, it was nice to have a couple of stories right next to published authors.

Something went wrong within the last few weeks and as to what, I'm not entirely sure. I'll let Tribe's own words explain it...

This past week though a submission was posted that led to the Gutter’s very first comment flame war. One commenter took it upon herself to call all the authors there amateurs. She later claimed she was using amateur to describe the fact that no one was paid for a submission, but it was pretty clear that wasn’t the way the term was used initially.

So there was tons of back and forth between commenter known and unknown. I wasn’t paying attention to them all.

Anyway, one thing led to another and out of the blue there’s a request to delete all of certain stories because (evidently) I hadn’t been diligent about deleting certain comments in that comment flame thread that were admittedly improper.

The thing is, the bulk of the stories that were the subject of the request to delete were not only some of my very favorite, they represented a big chunk of the published stories, and they had gone a long way to giving the Gutter the reputation it had.

I felt they almost went to the heart of what Flashing In the Gutter was.

So the request to delete is posed as personal punishment and a lesson to me because I had allowed certain comments to be posted.

Know what? I’m too fucking old to be scolded.

That and I never, ever allow anyone to hold anything over my head. What, I was to beg this person to please not make me delete stories because I wasn’t aware quickly enough that someone else had posted improper comments? Hell, I even suspect now that suspect comments were likely posted under an assumed ID. I didn’t pay that much attention, I didn’t think I had to.

Regardless, I don’t need this. Life is too goddamn short as it is.

I’m not going to name names. Suffice it to say that it stopped being fun.

So when I write “the best way to frustrate a hostage-taker is to shoot the hostage in the head,” I mean it.

There it is ladies and gentlemen. Another good thing and safehaven, gone. Beau-ti-ful...not to mention that what it really comes down to the one person who's trying to do something wonderful for people and improve the lives of many, winds up discouraged.

Hopefully, you won't wind up bitter over this Tribe, you did a great thing for us all, and that's what's really important.

Who's A What?

So Procrastinator Jr. and I had just finished eating, the Missus was still on her salad when we got a slow rumbler. I told Junior to get under the table and as soon as he did, the quake was basically over.

The Missus was still eating her salad, while Procrastinator Jr. got up and sat down. As I glanced over at the Missus, I realized that she didn't even flinch.

Me: Well, look, who's been living out here too long. Who's jaded Californian now?
The Missus: (bored) You're just mad because I didn't get under the table.
Me: No, seriously, did you even move?

Who Says Dogs Don't Aspire To High Art?

As I was strolling down to the Laundromat to pick up some quarters, I saw something on the sidewalk that almost resembled a clay bunny. On closer inspection, it was dog doo...yet, it was almost as if Salvador Dali himself, sculpted a rabbit.

I pictured a dog of unknown breeding, just a little larger than a German Sheppard, judging by the example right by the curb. This dog didn't let a lack of hands or opposable thumbs, stop his or her artistic ambition. Then I pondered just how deep did the dog delve into the whole Dali persona and just where did the dog receive his or her artistic training? Had the dog surreptitiously trade a bowl of dog food here and there to the only creature that does have opposable thumbs in it's little doggie world, the raccoon, to make a Salvador mustache of dog hair?

I mean, obviously dogs are some of the few creatures in the animal kingdom, capable of the exaggerated facial expressions of the Master Surrealist. Not to mention that many an art critic has claimed most of Dali's work to be...







crap. Yeah, like you didn't see that one coming.

So here's to you great canine artist, break the choke chain of the establishment and create! Emote...Dog...Emote!...






Just not in front of my house or square in the middle of the sidewalk.

I'm Getting Tagged More Than The Slow Kid At School

And by that, I mean physically slow. Gian Don has tagged me to show just what's on my desk. Unfortunately Blogger won't let me upload and that's why you never see jpegs on my blog. I had a really cool vidcap from Ong-bak where Tony Jaa's pants are on fire. I was going to compare myself to that picture by telling a tall tale about Harvey Keitel and me, fighting for Lorraine Bracco's honor using those little plastic swords that they use for olive martinis.

So I have to do this radio style and channel what only The Shadow knows. The newer computer (not the laptop) is on a leaf to the main desk. On top of the computer is two McAfee boxes and behind the monitor is a can of air, as well as a half empty box of Post-its. In front of the printer is a Border's postcard that says a particular book is out of stock. I'm keeping it for the ISBN number and there's a sheet with rate ads for Creative Screenwriting, for the shop.

On the real desk is the old computer which really needs to go, my Olympus VN-240, various CDs, floppies, revised script pages, and entirely too much dust. I don't keep my tchotchkes anywhere near my desk, because I'm paranoid that anything magnetic will erase the computers. Above the desk is a good luck faux jade dragon that the Missus gave me, set inside faux wood dragons.

This meme has shown me that I am the Anti-Pooks and that there is no organization in this house, only chaos. I'd make getting the desks organizied a New Year's resolution, but resolutions are for TVs, digital cameras and monitors.

So at any rate, let me tag Dani, again (heh-heh-heh). Mr. Mxy and Gizmo, 'cause I'm curious as to what curios they will have.

So-so News, Bad News

ABC has decided to revive "Phillip Marlowe." I wonder if Chandler is spinning in his grave, or merely tipping another one back. Two of my favorite bloggers have decided to hang their blogs up.

Author David Terrenoire gave up the blogging ghost, though he will obviously still write novels. The biggest kick in the 'nads was JJ putting the shutters on my favorite shop. Even though I was that creepy kid that he used to chase out with the broom, I loved that place and he provided the venue in his Friday Flash Fiction, that kept me writing when I almost didn't feel like writing any more.

Not to mention that in a world where political conversations have become all about shouting and angry rhetoric, they were two safe, calm and sane voices.

God bless you two and may you both attain ridiculous amounts of fame and money.

I Owe Katie A Meme

Oh-oh, I owe somebody a meme and I think they won't come back to this blog until I post it.

I had a hard time coming up with six new quirks, as anyone who has regularly read this blog for the past six months, has seen pretty much all of them.

1) I will email you in an instant, but you can wait 'til hell freezes over for written letter from me. I won't even Christmas card you, the Missus is in charge of that department. If it involves stamps, my signature and it's not the rent, don't bother waiting on it.

2) I talk to myself. Not as loud as the schizos on a city corner or people on cell phones (thank you all for making me look slightly saner), but just above a whisper and most of it is non-perinent. I am an only child and sometimes that's how I work things through.

3) I'm a bad friend. When things get difficult as they do through friendships, I let them deteriorate, rather than make the effort to repair them.

4) I do not watch any, and I mean any, TV shows in their first run any more. "My Name Is Earl?" I'm saving for DVD watching next summer and I've gotten bored with police procedurals, which I would have to tape anyway since they start while I'm getting ready for or at work. I even wait for "Top Chef: Season Two" to replay on Bravo, rather than tape it.

5) "You have an appreciation for haute cuisine, yet you go to "In & Out Burger." -The Missus.

6) I have a love/hate relationship with advertising. Let me explain it this way, how would a San Franciscian screenwriter or director live between gigs? We're down to about three major Hollywood productions filming up here, a year. I'm not counting films that shoot five exterior shots and film the rest in Canada, I mean at least forty percent of their filming in the city and Treasure Island Studios.

So what do film people do for work? Advertising. In every fourth car commercial from Mercedes to Mitsubishi, they film in the Marin Headlands, right by Mount Tamalpais. So I decided along time ago to study advertising, because in the City, it's the only film gig that pays the regular bills.

Still, I don't like when ads cannibalize the others. I don't like it when they don't accurately parody or steal from films, and I plain hate advertising because it is the fast track for commercial directors to get the gig over worthy film directors.

So, Katie sez "At the end, you need to choose 6 people to be tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave a comment that says “you are tagged” in their comments and tell them to read your blog."

1. Dani 2. Becka. I told ya, yer tagged for life ; ) 3. James. This where I always slot Gian Don, but I promised him no more memes this year. 4. Chelene, though I know she won't tag anybody else. 5. Dale, who has cracked me up the most this week. 6. And Haahnster.

F*CK*NG BETA!

I don't have Blogger Beta, I don't want to switch to Blogger Beta, so Blogger won't let me post to Beta sites...at all! I was already signed in and I went to two different blogs who have switched to Beta, and what happens? Beta says that I have to sign in. So I sign in and Beta says that is not my password! WHAT THE FUCK?

At any rate, Becka? Love your new avatar pic and that version of "Jingle Bell Rock" is the cheesiest. Figures, Hall & Oates turned Philly into the City of Brotherly Cheesesteak.

Dani? Glad that you got out of your surgery okay. That weird dream you were having was no dream, that was Verne "Mini-Me" Troyer during one of his drunken black outs. Plus, never publish that your holding Percocet, you'll wind up with Paris, Nicole or Courtney on your doorstep.

A Dirty Joke, Italian-Style

Excuse me while I dodge a tag, I can't seem to come up with six weird things about myself and while I know you all can come up with a whole lot more than six, I'm having a hard time with it.

Here's a joke I heard over twenty years ago, you the reader will have to fill in the blanks in terms of the math, but the punchline will furnish the total. All you need is a calculator.

During a long weekend (or fill in how many days) in the hotel room number (fill in the blank). One woman, three men and (insert politically incorrect or inappropriate cliche here) went at it. Who came?


137.0705 is what your calculator should read. Then when the person who you tell the joke to says, "I don't get it." You turn the calculator upside down and 137.0705 reads solo lei, or in English, "only her."

Help Me To Help Her...

Nicole Richie called me up yesterday morning...

"Cochran's dead and Allred won't have anything to do with me. Help me, Write Procrastinator, you're my only hope!"

I told her, "hey, Nicole...I can't save you. I can't even saave myself! So just save yourself!"

At any rate, she keeps ringing me and it's gotten so bad that I have to turn my cell phone off. Not to mention that the Missus is now looking at me sideways. So help me come up with an effective defense for Nicole so that she would stop calling me. Should she go with:

A) Ate one whole apple and not only went into shock, but sugar shock as well.
B) Tainted spinach.
C) "Vicodin? Paris Hilton told me that they were asprin!"
D) The latest fad in L.A. is to "trip" off of E. coli-laced Taco Bell onions.
E) "If you had to listen to my father's music as much as I have, you'd drive the wrong way down the freeway, too."

Post Scriptum, Katie came up with...

F) She was traumatized because Joel Madden forced her to have a threesome with Hillary Duff.

Gah, That Damn Song Is Stuck In My Head

I bought the first season of "Entourage" and I'm about halfway through. It's good, but it's not "Deadwood," "The Wire" or "The Sopranos." My main problem with it so far is that they played "Poison" when they were at the L.A. club Prey and now I have that stupid song stuck in my head (to go with the Internet picture of her cookie and c-section scar). Dang, they just played a quick snippet of "Poison" at whatever they're now calling the TWA Dome in St. Louis.

Other things the house has watched recently on video...

Waist Deep, a decent effort by Vondie Curtis Hall. I was expecting big things from him after Gridlock'd. Then Glitter nearly killed his directing career and he was pushed into TV.

A Prarie Home Companion would've worked better as a play, as the odd, surrealistic moments didn't translate as well onscreen. It was not a fitting end for Robert Altman, he almost made Virginia Madsen boring and the movie never really turns the corner in terms of mediocrity.

The Thief Lord is one of Procrastinator Junior's favorite books and a good film for the seven to thirteen set, as well as for the entire family.

Bad Ads II

After coming in late on the Sean Payton showing up his mentor, Bill Parcels, I get the Nissan truck ad twice in the same commercial break. You might have seen it, the TV screen is supposed to represent your TV screen. Two guys fast-forward a Tivo through a Canadian Football game and one says, "this is boring, let me get to the good part."

The other guy goes, "yeah, there it is!" The truck charges and sloshes through mud while big letters extoll its performance. Cue Black Sabbath-

"I-am-Iron Man!"

Patrick Crayton doesn't run his route in the redzone and Grammatica kicks a field goal. Then NBC runs the damn ad twice in the same ad break again!

Ad: I-am-
Me: -mute button!

The Company Party

It's that time of the year...yes, the company party where the Missus works at. And every year, I say the same thing, "yeah, I'd rather have my teeth pulled out." And every year, she brandishes the pliers. You'd think one of us would change it up, yet I cave in like post-Napoleonic France.

And every year, it manages to rain. Now for those of you who have never driven in California when it rains, we only drive two speeds out here: Too fast or too slow. Wanna stop three Californians in their tracks? Sprinkle water on them and watch the first two stop come to a dead stop, and then the other will promptly plow right into them.

This is where video game skills come in handy folks, think slalom. Eleven near-accidents later, Procrastinator Jr. and I were at the aquarium, which is a great place to learn, but not the best place for a party. I'll explain in a few, but first I have to relive the replay with the Stasi, er, security guard.

Five people go in before and the security guard holds the door open for them. I come in and, "um, sir are you hear for the party?" as tries to step and front of me and close the door on me simultaneously. I whip an invitation out on him (no, I really mean an invitation) and then I tell him how I don't appreciate being singled out and discriminated against. Keep this in mind, there are absolutely no other events going on in there or aquarium employees to be picked up. You're either there for the party, or not.

Let me explain it to you, the reader this way...security guards don't like me. Regardless of their age, regardless of their race, regardless of their political or sexual orientation, regardless of what I'm wearing, be it jeans and a t-shirt, or a suit...they plain just don't like me. It's the same in every state I've been to, it's the same in every country I've been to. Now, bouncers? They are about fifty/fifty in their treatment of me, but 98% of the world's security guards go out of their way to show their dislike and disdain of me.

Forty-one years of the same crap and on this, I'm being perfectly serious. If I weren't an honest person, I could make a fortune just walking through a store. Because all of the security guards in there would follow me and thieves could walk out the front door with the entire store under their coats. This character could barely look me in the eye when we left, because he knew he was wrong.

Onward past the one of the poorest excuses for a lower intestinal aperture and on to the good stuff, Tree Frog Treks! They make reptiles fun, no easy task, that. They had all kinds of reptiles. An iguana, the coolest bearded dragon ever, snakes, and even a tortoise. The hare wasn't present, probably still sore about the race. I tell you, that Aesop blackmailed me into taking a dive and besides, that tortoise had the same trainer as Barry Bonds! They hold the reptiles and you can pet them, or you can hold them too.

Oh, I forgot to mention that they closed and tore down the old Steinhart Aquarium, and moved about one-twentieth of the fish to this new site, while they rebuild the old site from the ground up. The new site is more night club than aquarium in its paint and furnishings. The tanks aren't as big as before given the smaller, temporary building. There were no full-sized sharks, penguins, dolphins or manatees, and the like.

The constants of the company party have always been: this cat who makes bubbles with his hands, dim sum from Yank Sing, sushi, and salmon with mashed potatoes, served in a martini glass. The mashed potatoes are topped with salmon, caviar and dried onions. There was no sushi this year, but instead, they had what looked like crab cakes, topped off with a mushroom sauce.

One of the Missus' friends didn't like the taste of the "crab cake" and as I tried one for myself, I saw why. The "crab cake" was actually a rice and mushroom cake, with a crispy mushroom exterior, not a bad vegetarian substitution.

We enjoyed the food, but the surroundings would kill the appetite of most people. Stuffed animals (and I don't mean teddy bears), birds and skeletons. It was like eating at a taxidermist's shop in some places, but it would take more than that to kill my appetite. The bartender's know how to mix and you'd think that people would tip a couple of dollars at an open bar, but maybe they think the bartenders are super-affluent people that do that job just for kicks.

I had a good time and that was made even better because I didn't have to be on my best behavior the whole time. With the party as spread out as it was, as opposed to being clustered up in the office, we could sneak out early without drawing the attention of the whole firm.

The Sword Of Damocles That Is My Sanity

(sproing)

Oh, what was that? Could it be the hair that suspends the Sword of Damocles that is my sanity, just frayed a little more? I am without wireless, a piece of the modem card has managed to damage the slot and both need repair, making work pretty much unbearable right now.

Thank God it's the weekend.

Brick

Dashiell Hammett had a language all to his own and one could speculate that he was the first to bring the lingo from the darkest part of the other side of the tracks into every corner of America, though that should be tempered with the fact that virtually none of the works of his early pulp contemporaries made it in to the noir era.

I had the pleasure of renting Brick. A detective story set in a high school in sunny San Clemente, California. It's the city that Nixon spent his "exile" years after leaving the White House. The film's director, Rian Johnson, did a great job of bringing darkness to such a bright 'burb. Rian and I both have read a book the Coen brothers and found out that Miller's Crossing is a blend of Hammett's novels, "Red Harvest" and "The Glass Key."

You can see the Coen's/Barry Sonnenfeld's influence in the action scenes. There are echos of "Miller's Crossing" throughout, especially in the kinesis of the violence. And with both films, they do a fantastic job of incorporating Hammett's lingo, though Johnson takes it a step further by blending the now archaic idioms as if they were contemporary dialogue, and updating some of them into a lingo all his own.

The fact that he staged it a high school does take away from the film to a lesser degree, as you have to suspend disbelief to the fact that kids could walk in and out of high school so easily. Not to mention that the fact that the adults in the film are almost non-existant and they are superfluous to the point that you expect Richard Roundtree to use the wah-wah patter of a Charlie Brown special.

Therein, also lies the beauty of it. Here we are in Orange County and the parents are too rich, or too oblivious to see this underworld sprouting and thriving in their own backyard.

The mystery is set up well and while the payoff is nice, it's not a solid knockout, though it wins on points. There are also elements of "The Maltese Falcon" and I give credit to Rian Johnson for not going with an ending straight out of "The Dain Curse."

Anglo-Saxon Verbage

I was never really into Blue Oyster Cult, but some songs are so perfect in conveying a sentiment.

You see me now a veteran of a thousand psychic wars
I've been living on the edge so long
Where the winds of limbo roar
And I'm young enough to look at
And far too old to see
All the scars are on the inside
I'm not sure if there's anything left of me

"Veteran of The Psychic Wars"- Blue Oyster Cult

Writing-wise, I used to thrive on the indignant sphincters that populate my workplace. I would take their negative energy, undue comments, and malice, and turn it into something creative. Now they just burn me out.

Eh...

On a lighter note, from the S.F Chronicle's "Ask Mick LaSalle page," a letter to our newspaper's movie critic...

Dear Mick LaSalle:

The etymology of the f-word (the subject of the movie "F -- ") is no mystery. It's an Anglo-Saxon verb meaning to stick your finger in the soil and drop in a seed. It's similar in German. So you can say it anytime you wish, in an agricultural sense.

Russ Kane, Santa Cruz

Dear Russ Kane:

Thanks. It's a warm, cozy thing to imagine centuries long past and all those Germans with their fingers in the soil. I never suspected agriculture could be so rewarding.

I'm May Dance With Myself, But...

...I'm no Billy Idol...

(Votre chien sans un nez)
Your dog without a nose
(Votre chien sans un nez)
Your dog without a nose

(Votre chien sans un nez)
Your dog without a nose
He's always on my toes
Your dog without a nose

Done to the tune of this, in case you haven't figured it out. Or here, listen to cut number four.

On The Tip Of My Tongue

I know what I want but I just dont know
How to, go about gettin it
Feeling sweet feeling
Drops from my fingers, fingers
Manic depression is catchin my soul

Jimi Hendrix "Manic Depression"

Lately, both with my writing and my blog, I've had this enthusiasm boiling in me, but I have nothing to write about and no focus. I played quasi-hooky and took Friday off. The Missus desperately needed sleep, but I could've gone to work. The idea was for me to get a whole script done before the end of the month for a particular contest, but after staring at the screen and everything else in the apartment like Barton Fink, I just gave up and played video games.

Nasty stuff, that writer's block.

Hooray!

Katie has an article in Girlistic Magazine, it's called "My Vagina, Seeing 'V' to Eye."

And I think to myself, Louie Armstrong, "what a wonderful world..."