Saturday, February 26, 2005
How long will it take to understand?
I've been so busy lately. And I do appreciate the comments. I will try to post more for you all. But you still need to get caught up. It will take some time. I have a new script in my hands. It's something less me, and more contemporary. I'm going to read some of it tonight...
More posts from June 14, 2004:
06:51 pm Rural Stream Connectivity
The room needs to be colder. I just spoke with M*** on the phone. She said that she would meet me at the Rialto tomorrow night, that we could go dancing afterward. "No, I don't mind hanging with you," she said. "And I want to see The Story of the Weeping Camel. I need to see what some of the people I know look like up there." I told her that I need to sit in the big chairs and not have to smell cotton fields and Almond trees. "Movie's at 9ish," she said.
I noticed the homeless in Bakersfield--they wander along the river on a path and camp under overpasses to the trill of frogs and crickets. Cyclists ride it. I've jogged it. I hear that 300 movies were filmed at this river. Here and up in the Tehachapis. They would camp all night--the John Waynes, Tex Ritters and Hop Along Cassidys and sing to their own merriment. Then when their backs hurt they would sleep in a nice hotel room bed and get room service.
07:07 pm The Fusion Suit Character
Here's the character I have to get into. He's a pulp writer; he's got one lousy book that nobody cares about--Fusion Suit. He's a gambling addict. He's a nightlife addict. He has sex with the creepiest women who hang out in the fire room at the Peppermill across from the Stardust. His mother lives in the mad city of lights and sits in the 7-11 around the corner at 3am and gambles her dead husband's pension and social security. She's Italian and wears too-large glasses like she's in an Elton John fan club. He's seen a murder in his youth and it haunts him because his old buddy was some Wolfean, Kerouac, lit lover who wanted to romance young loins. He had promise too. But he threw it away in a decade long depressive state. He goes back to Vegas and slinks into the darkest of underworld Vegas tales--just to write a book. I can be this guy. No problem. That's why they hired me, right? I have to go downstairs and order a chicken salad. Maybe I will hang out at the bar or just go to bed.
07:30 pm Wolfean Kid Goes to Hell
Did I mention the Wolfean kid is dead? Yeah. He gets off'd and nobody knows why. Not even Mr. Fusion Suit knows. See, when they were kids, they were in the woods with some girl they both loved and they all went running after they saw some bug-eyed informant get his head blown off by some shadowy somebody. What the hell--they get traumatized--we all get traumatized. Only the killer sees the kids and hunts down Mr. Wolfean of the three. I can't give away too much. But the other two get spared. Forget going downstairs. I don't want to be around people. I'll order the chicken salad. I'll see M*** tomorrow night anyway so she can see how stupid her friends look after all on the big screen. ¶ 11:10 PM
More posts from June 14, 2004:
06:51 pm Rural Stream Connectivity
The room needs to be colder. I just spoke with M*** on the phone. She said that she would meet me at the Rialto tomorrow night, that we could go dancing afterward. "No, I don't mind hanging with you," she said. "And I want to see The Story of the Weeping Camel. I need to see what some of the people I know look like up there." I told her that I need to sit in the big chairs and not have to smell cotton fields and Almond trees. "Movie's at 9ish," she said.
I noticed the homeless in Bakersfield--they wander along the river on a path and camp under overpasses to the trill of frogs and crickets. Cyclists ride it. I've jogged it. I hear that 300 movies were filmed at this river. Here and up in the Tehachapis. They would camp all night--the John Waynes, Tex Ritters and Hop Along Cassidys and sing to their own merriment. Then when their backs hurt they would sleep in a nice hotel room bed and get room service.
07:07 pm The Fusion Suit Character
Here's the character I have to get into. He's a pulp writer; he's got one lousy book that nobody cares about--Fusion Suit. He's a gambling addict. He's a nightlife addict. He has sex with the creepiest women who hang out in the fire room at the Peppermill across from the Stardust. His mother lives in the mad city of lights and sits in the 7-11 around the corner at 3am and gambles her dead husband's pension and social security. She's Italian and wears too-large glasses like she's in an Elton John fan club. He's seen a murder in his youth and it haunts him because his old buddy was some Wolfean, Kerouac, lit lover who wanted to romance young loins. He had promise too. But he threw it away in a decade long depressive state. He goes back to Vegas and slinks into the darkest of underworld Vegas tales--just to write a book. I can be this guy. No problem. That's why they hired me, right? I have to go downstairs and order a chicken salad. Maybe I will hang out at the bar or just go to bed.
07:30 pm Wolfean Kid Goes to Hell
Did I mention the Wolfean kid is dead? Yeah. He gets off'd and nobody knows why. Not even Mr. Fusion Suit knows. See, when they were kids, they were in the woods with some girl they both loved and they all went running after they saw some bug-eyed informant get his head blown off by some shadowy somebody. What the hell--they get traumatized--we all get traumatized. Only the killer sees the kids and hunts down Mr. Wolfean of the three. I can't give away too much. But the other two get spared. Forget going downstairs. I don't want to be around people. I'll order the chicken salad. I'll see M*** tomorrow night anyway so she can see how stupid her friends look after all on the big screen. ¶ 11:10 PM
