Last night: after two days without sleep, my mom finally passed out. I did not. I couldn't drink myself to sleep because, if the hospital called, I would need to lucid. I didn't know if my father would be with us when we woke up.
It was a long, dark night.
No one called with news of either kind during the night, so... it was a no-news-is-no-news situation. We went to the hospital, thinking it would be more of the same.
My father was awake.
He's groggy and cannot speak. But he moves and can smile. He knows what you're saying to him, and gave a weak thumbs-up when he heard he would be able to golf again.
Daina was pleasantly surprised. She didn't say it in so many words, but I could tell they didn't expect for this to be the outcome.
Here's what happened:
On Monday, it was bad news of course... having a minor stroke is like getting shot with a minor gun. (Or an "insignificant bullet," as Werner Herzog would say). It's not exactly a paper cut. But he could talk on the phone, and lie comfortably in bed.
Thus, they weren't watching him every second on Monday night. So when he had trouble breathing, it was several minutes before a nurse noticed. It was no one's fault, just some bad luck. He was a victim of his own relatively good health. When he wasn't breathing, the oxygen was cut off from his brain. Luckily, it wasn't long enough to kill him, just knock him out.
This morning: we met with Dr. Gorman. The tests for which we'd been waiting came back.
He had a stroke in the right side of his brain stem. The flow of blood to the brain had been blocked by an obstruction. But the test didn't show anything here - whatever had caused the stroke has since moved on. There was no bleeding in his brain. The stroke affected the cerebellum, which controls the senses. From what we can tell, nothing that controls basic motor functions was damaged.
He can breathe on his own, but is still aided by the tubes. They don't want to rush it. It could come out today, or tomorrow. They still want him to get a lot of rest, hence my being home at the moment. We can only visit for limited periods.
Thanks to everyone for your prayers and support. My dad could have gone either way last night. It was 50/50. We flipped a coin... and we came up heads. I'd like to think he was aided by the good thoughts that came his way.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
My Father - What Happened, and an Update
His name is Thomas Stanley Kuciak, and he had a stroke.
As to what happened, I wasn't there - so please forgive the lack of detail - but this is what my mom's told me:
On Sunday night, my dad didn't feel well when he went to bed.
At three o'clock Monday morning, my mom woke up and found him awake and sitting in the next room. He said it was time to go to the emergency room. She dialed 911.
They got him to the hospital, which is luckily about five minutes away. He was lucid and awake, but in pain. His left arm felt strange. The doctors said he'd had a stroke.
My mom called and told me what had happened. She said he was getting tests, and would call back. Having nothing else to do, I worked until they called at about 12:30 Monday afternoon. He dialed the phone himself, with his right hand, and held the phone to his head with his left.
He said, "I feel like shit." He said something else, but his voice was slurred. That was all he could say. That was fine - I didn't want to strain him.
At the time, it seemed like a relatively minor stroke. A warning stroke, something to tell my dad he'll have to life a different way, and keep an eye on his health. It was distressing, but seemed in the moment that, after a scare, we'd be able to just move on with our lives.
I called my mom again at about seven last night. She was home. He was about the same, and the nurses said she should get some rest. She was exhausted, and I only talked to her for a couple of minutes. However, she later told me she got very little sleep.
My flight was at 9:45 this morning out of Burbank. I got in at about noon Phoenix time. Their friend Jerry picked me up. I got to the house, dropped off my stuff, and we went to the hospital.
When we arrived, he wasn't in the room. He'd been taken down for a series of tests. But we were only there for a few minutes before they brought him back.
He was unconscious.
The nursing staff got him hooked back up to the battery of machines and cleaned him up. It took several minutes, during which my mom and I sat in the corner, watching.
When they were done, Taina - the nurse - explained where we were at:
Last night at about 10:30 or so, a nurse checked on him, and he wasn't breathing. His lips were blue. They got a tube in him. He hasn't woken up since. He isn't breathing on his own.
If you call his name, his eyes flutter open. She did so, demonstrating. But the eyes don't track. There's no one home. That doesn't mean he's gone per se... he may just be too far down. The eye blink is an almost reflexive response. He didn't open his eyes when my mom or I spoke to him, though.
He clenches is left fist. Taina thought that was odd, since when he was awake, all of the discomfort had been with the left side. Ordinarily, discomfort on the left side means that's where you'll have the most trouble. But he's moving that side... and not the right. It's not good or bad, just unusual.
Right before we'd arrived, the neurologist, Dr. Gorman, had sent him to do a range of tests. They wanted to see if there was brain activity. They wanted to see if he'd had another stroke, which is possible. These things sometimes come in groups.
The thing is, no one, including the medical staff, knows anything at this point until the tests come back. We're in limbo.
What we DO know is he's now a diabetic. He also has high blood pressue. It's not dangerously high, just high.
Daina was told us the unvarnished truth: we have a 50/50 chance of keeping or losing him. There is a chance he could wake up in an hour and, after rehab, be fine. There is a chance he could wake and have suffered neurological damage. And there is a chance he won't wake up.
She was very clear... she said that, if she felt we needed to, she'd let us know that we should stay in the room. And that was not the situation. He's out, but (relatively) stable.
Until we know more, all there is... is not knowing. He may not have brain activity, and there is only blackness. Or he may be thinking, and just be too deep in the dream to communicate.
I'll post again as soon as we have information.
As to what happened, I wasn't there - so please forgive the lack of detail - but this is what my mom's told me:
On Sunday night, my dad didn't feel well when he went to bed.
At three o'clock Monday morning, my mom woke up and found him awake and sitting in the next room. He said it was time to go to the emergency room. She dialed 911.
They got him to the hospital, which is luckily about five minutes away. He was lucid and awake, but in pain. His left arm felt strange. The doctors said he'd had a stroke.
My mom called and told me what had happened. She said he was getting tests, and would call back. Having nothing else to do, I worked until they called at about 12:30 Monday afternoon. He dialed the phone himself, with his right hand, and held the phone to his head with his left.
He said, "I feel like shit." He said something else, but his voice was slurred. That was all he could say. That was fine - I didn't want to strain him.
At the time, it seemed like a relatively minor stroke. A warning stroke, something to tell my dad he'll have to life a different way, and keep an eye on his health. It was distressing, but seemed in the moment that, after a scare, we'd be able to just move on with our lives.
I called my mom again at about seven last night. She was home. He was about the same, and the nurses said she should get some rest. She was exhausted, and I only talked to her for a couple of minutes. However, she later told me she got very little sleep.
My flight was at 9:45 this morning out of Burbank. I got in at about noon Phoenix time. Their friend Jerry picked me up. I got to the house, dropped off my stuff, and we went to the hospital.
When we arrived, he wasn't in the room. He'd been taken down for a series of tests. But we were only there for a few minutes before they brought him back.
He was unconscious.
The nursing staff got him hooked back up to the battery of machines and cleaned him up. It took several minutes, during which my mom and I sat in the corner, watching.
When they were done, Taina - the nurse - explained where we were at:
Last night at about 10:30 or so, a nurse checked on him, and he wasn't breathing. His lips were blue. They got a tube in him. He hasn't woken up since. He isn't breathing on his own.
If you call his name, his eyes flutter open. She did so, demonstrating. But the eyes don't track. There's no one home. That doesn't mean he's gone per se... he may just be too far down. The eye blink is an almost reflexive response. He didn't open his eyes when my mom or I spoke to him, though.
He clenches is left fist. Taina thought that was odd, since when he was awake, all of the discomfort had been with the left side. Ordinarily, discomfort on the left side means that's where you'll have the most trouble. But he's moving that side... and not the right. It's not good or bad, just unusual.
Right before we'd arrived, the neurologist, Dr. Gorman, had sent him to do a range of tests. They wanted to see if there was brain activity. They wanted to see if he'd had another stroke, which is possible. These things sometimes come in groups.
The thing is, no one, including the medical staff, knows anything at this point until the tests come back. We're in limbo.
What we DO know is he's now a diabetic. He also has high blood pressue. It's not dangerously high, just high.
Daina was told us the unvarnished truth: we have a 50/50 chance of keeping or losing him. There is a chance he could wake up in an hour and, after rehab, be fine. There is a chance he could wake and have suffered neurological damage. And there is a chance he won't wake up.
She was very clear... she said that, if she felt we needed to, she'd let us know that we should stay in the room. And that was not the situation. He's out, but (relatively) stable.
Until we know more, all there is... is not knowing. He may not have brain activity, and there is only blackness. Or he may be thinking, and just be too deep in the dream to communicate.
I'll post again as soon as we have information.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
On Re-Rewriting
When my Gateway laptop crapped out on me, it was a pain in the ass in the sense that I lost a lot of time dealing with it instead of working.
But in terms of data, it wasn't that huge of a loss, since almost everything that was on it had been emailed at one point in time or another, either between other people, or to myself.
The only truly significant loss was the work I did on the third draft of my script EXTRADITION while visiting my family over Thanksgiving. A week's worth of writing... gone.
I've been rebuilding that work since then, a little at a time.
On the one hand it's easier. Over Thanksgiving, I wrote a ton of pages I ended up throwing out, chasing ideas down rabbit holes, only to discard what came out the other end. No big deal... that's how I write, anyway. So it wasn't wasted time, in the sense that now I'm rebuilding writing that was based on choices made after many other choices were explored and discarded.
On the other hand... the work isn't kept fresh by creative exploration, which is always fun for me. There's a pervading sense of, "Fuck, I DID this already!" Instead of enjoyable, it's frustrating, a constant reminder of what a piece of shit my old laptop was, and the trouble it caused me. It is exactly like getting three quarters the way through building a house, only to have a hurricane come along and blow everything down.
I hate having to fight my way back up to zero, but that's a frequent situation in my life.
I made it up to page 75 before the laptop died. I've rebuilt everything up to page 55. So, in 20 pages, I'll be back in virgin territory. Those last pages will be purely new... I have to come up with a completely different third act climax. It'll be harder work, but more fun.
After I hand that in, I'll be back on DESERT RUN. Not only do I rewrite that project every time I go back to it; each go-around is another reinvention. Again: harder work, but more fun.
And after that's turned around, I'm gonna crack out this horror idea that's rattling around in me. I'll keep the writing of that first draft to within 10-14 days, so it doesn't get in the way of the more commercial stuff.
But in terms of data, it wasn't that huge of a loss, since almost everything that was on it had been emailed at one point in time or another, either between other people, or to myself.
The only truly significant loss was the work I did on the third draft of my script EXTRADITION while visiting my family over Thanksgiving. A week's worth of writing... gone.
I've been rebuilding that work since then, a little at a time.
On the one hand it's easier. Over Thanksgiving, I wrote a ton of pages I ended up throwing out, chasing ideas down rabbit holes, only to discard what came out the other end. No big deal... that's how I write, anyway. So it wasn't wasted time, in the sense that now I'm rebuilding writing that was based on choices made after many other choices were explored and discarded.
On the other hand... the work isn't kept fresh by creative exploration, which is always fun for me. There's a pervading sense of, "Fuck, I DID this already!" Instead of enjoyable, it's frustrating, a constant reminder of what a piece of shit my old laptop was, and the trouble it caused me. It is exactly like getting three quarters the way through building a house, only to have a hurricane come along and blow everything down.
I hate having to fight my way back up to zero, but that's a frequent situation in my life.
I made it up to page 75 before the laptop died. I've rebuilt everything up to page 55. So, in 20 pages, I'll be back in virgin territory. Those last pages will be purely new... I have to come up with a completely different third act climax. It'll be harder work, but more fun.
After I hand that in, I'll be back on DESERT RUN. Not only do I rewrite that project every time I go back to it; each go-around is another reinvention. Again: harder work, but more fun.
And after that's turned around, I'm gonna crack out this horror idea that's rattling around in me. I'll keep the writing of that first draft to within 10-14 days, so it doesn't get in the way of the more commercial stuff.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Boots
The other day, I was riding southbound on Vine, coming back from the gym. I shifted gears, and the sole of my left boot came off. It fell into onto the street. I pulled over.
By some bizarre coincidence, I was within fifty feet of California Surplus, an army surplus store from which I had bought this pair of boots a year ago. I limped to their front door... and they had closed fifteen minutes ago.
I have a spare helmet, but not a spare set of boots.
I rode over the next day wearing my Converse. It was weird - I felt like I was shifting with my bare feet.
I got boots, and I hope they last at least another year.
New boots chew up the side of your leg. It's like a tattoo - you earn it through pain.
My first set of boots were a little tight. They left neat, read circles of cut skin around my mid-shin. I thought perhaps this happened because they were too tight, so this time I got boots a half size larger. They did an even worse job on me, sawing at the skin right beneath the muscle. It sucked and it bled. I wore nothing but those boots for a week, trying to break them in as soon as possible.
It worked. Now the boots fit fine, but I haven't healed yet. It looks like I walked into barbed wire. But again... if you're scared of pain and injury, you don't belong on a damn motorcycle.
Freedom demands pain.
By some bizarre coincidence, I was within fifty feet of California Surplus, an army surplus store from which I had bought this pair of boots a year ago. I limped to their front door... and they had closed fifteen minutes ago.
I have a spare helmet, but not a spare set of boots.
I rode over the next day wearing my Converse. It was weird - I felt like I was shifting with my bare feet.
I got boots, and I hope they last at least another year.
New boots chew up the side of your leg. It's like a tattoo - you earn it through pain.
My first set of boots were a little tight. They left neat, read circles of cut skin around my mid-shin. I thought perhaps this happened because they were too tight, so this time I got boots a half size larger. They did an even worse job on me, sawing at the skin right beneath the muscle. It sucked and it bled. I wore nothing but those boots for a week, trying to break them in as soon as possible.
It worked. Now the boots fit fine, but I haven't healed yet. It looks like I walked into barbed wire. But again... if you're scared of pain and injury, you don't belong on a damn motorcycle.
Freedom demands pain.
Friday, December 18, 2009
Dan O'Bannon
Dan O'Bannon died.
It would be easy to find eulogies to the guy online. I don't feel the need to add to it, beyond to say that ALIEN is one of the best movies ever made, and is deeply important to me in the sense of the path I took in life.
I would put RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD up there as one of the best horror-comedies of all time, right up with EVIL DEAD II in terms of brilliance. Hell... let's not shove it into a niche. It's not just an amazing horror-comedy, it's a damn good movie, period.
One of the hardest times I've ever laughed in my life is the first appearance of the beach ball monster in DARK STAR.
Thanks, man.
It would be easy to find eulogies to the guy online. I don't feel the need to add to it, beyond to say that ALIEN is one of the best movies ever made, and is deeply important to me in the sense of the path I took in life.
I would put RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD up there as one of the best horror-comedies of all time, right up with EVIL DEAD II in terms of brilliance. Hell... let's not shove it into a niche. It's not just an amazing horror-comedy, it's a damn good movie, period.
One of the hardest times I've ever laughed in my life is the first appearance of the beach ball monster in DARK STAR.
Thanks, man.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Rejoice, For I Now Own a Coffee Maker
I visited my parents for Thanksgiving. It was impossible not to notice an new addition to their kitchen counter-top: a big-ass coffee maker. Brand new. This thing is the RoboCop of coffee making.
They typically drink decaf, because that's what happens when you retire: you try to relax. I, however, have no interest in decaf. I worship at the altar of caffeine.
These days, I'm getting to the gym, eating right and pulling down some real sleep, so I don't have to prop myself up with a gallon of burning go-juice like I used to... but hell, I'd be a damn liar if I said I didn't love a good shot of joe, black and in a cup.
Anyway, the parents are well aware of my disdain for decaf so, when I swing out to visit, they stock up on real beans, as God intended. This time around, they got a bag of the Dunkin Donuts blend. There's a rare commodity. In Chicago, there are so many Dunkin Donuts around, you could skip a rock off their roof tops. In LA, not so much. It's not chain donut town. I've seen a couple of Winchell's around, but even they're not as ubiquitous as DD in Chicago. When it comes to donuts, LA is more of a mom'n'pop scene. Doesn't matter to me either way... I can't remember the last time I ate a donut.
But I digress: we now live in a world in which good coffee is as close as the nearest fast food joint. But even in that stratus, the DD stuff stands out. My parents made some coffee. I'd say they made a pot of coffee, but it isn't that kind of maker. You press a button, and a specially made shot of coffee shoots into your cup, crafted just for you.
I was expecting coffee. What I got instead was hot happiness in liquid form.
Pure bliss.
I expressed my deep appreciation of this wondrous machine, and its product.
Now... I used to have a coffee maker, but the pot broke, and it was a piece of shit anyway so I threw it out. Juan Valdez could have shown up at my front door with a freshly harvested sack of beans, roasted them right there, hand-cranked the grinder and lovingly brewed a cup, and my old maker would have still turned it into black urine. Good riddance.
But I've been waking up to some caffeine for years. It's not just a habit, it's a ritual that signals the beginning of a day.
I've been getting by with green tea. It's supposed to be good for you, or at least better than coffee. Water - that I can boil. And I've been regularly hitting the Hollywood farmer's market, where I scored a bunch of fresh mint for a buck. Toss some of those leaves into the green tea, and... not bad.
It doesn't have the bitter kick of a good cup of coffee, and the caffeine is a more mellow experience. Green tea is like having mom gently shake you awake. "Honey? Time to go to school..." Coffee is a drill sergeant. Good coffee is like R. Lee Ermey with a bullhorn.
Point is, apparently my parents took note of my love for their coffee machine. A few days ago, Santa Claus showed up at my door. He used his elfin Christmas magic to make himself look like a UPS delivery guy. Santa gave me a box.
Inside the box: an early Christmas present from the 'rents. An identical coffee maker.
I have yet to deflower it. You don't just dump Folgers in this thing. It demands a higher grade of bean. I've been mulling my options, deciding what brew I'll use to lasciviously sully my new coffee maker. Starbucks? An organic blend from Whole Foods? Something else I haven't thought of yet...? I've been circling the machine, mulling my options.
There are some coffee guys at the farmer's market. They've got a damn good cup. If I don't think of anything brilliant before Sunday, I'll probably score a bag from their stall.
I have nothing but happiness on my horizon.
They typically drink decaf, because that's what happens when you retire: you try to relax. I, however, have no interest in decaf. I worship at the altar of caffeine.
These days, I'm getting to the gym, eating right and pulling down some real sleep, so I don't have to prop myself up with a gallon of burning go-juice like I used to... but hell, I'd be a damn liar if I said I didn't love a good shot of joe, black and in a cup.
Anyway, the parents are well aware of my disdain for decaf so, when I swing out to visit, they stock up on real beans, as God intended. This time around, they got a bag of the Dunkin Donuts blend. There's a rare commodity. In Chicago, there are so many Dunkin Donuts around, you could skip a rock off their roof tops. In LA, not so much. It's not chain donut town. I've seen a couple of Winchell's around, but even they're not as ubiquitous as DD in Chicago. When it comes to donuts, LA is more of a mom'n'pop scene. Doesn't matter to me either way... I can't remember the last time I ate a donut.
But I digress: we now live in a world in which good coffee is as close as the nearest fast food joint. But even in that stratus, the DD stuff stands out. My parents made some coffee. I'd say they made a pot of coffee, but it isn't that kind of maker. You press a button, and a specially made shot of coffee shoots into your cup, crafted just for you.
I was expecting coffee. What I got instead was hot happiness in liquid form.
Pure bliss.
I expressed my deep appreciation of this wondrous machine, and its product.
Now... I used to have a coffee maker, but the pot broke, and it was a piece of shit anyway so I threw it out. Juan Valdez could have shown up at my front door with a freshly harvested sack of beans, roasted them right there, hand-cranked the grinder and lovingly brewed a cup, and my old maker would have still turned it into black urine. Good riddance.
But I've been waking up to some caffeine for years. It's not just a habit, it's a ritual that signals the beginning of a day.
I've been getting by with green tea. It's supposed to be good for you, or at least better than coffee. Water - that I can boil. And I've been regularly hitting the Hollywood farmer's market, where I scored a bunch of fresh mint for a buck. Toss some of those leaves into the green tea, and... not bad.
It doesn't have the bitter kick of a good cup of coffee, and the caffeine is a more mellow experience. Green tea is like having mom gently shake you awake. "Honey? Time to go to school..." Coffee is a drill sergeant. Good coffee is like R. Lee Ermey with a bullhorn.
Point is, apparently my parents took note of my love for their coffee machine. A few days ago, Santa Claus showed up at my door. He used his elfin Christmas magic to make himself look like a UPS delivery guy. Santa gave me a box.
Inside the box: an early Christmas present from the 'rents. An identical coffee maker.
I have yet to deflower it. You don't just dump Folgers in this thing. It demands a higher grade of bean. I've been mulling my options, deciding what brew I'll use to lasciviously sully my new coffee maker. Starbucks? An organic blend from Whole Foods? Something else I haven't thought of yet...? I've been circling the machine, mulling my options.
There are some coffee guys at the farmer's market. They've got a damn good cup. If I don't think of anything brilliant before Sunday, I'll probably score a bag from their stall.
I have nothing but happiness on my horizon.
Hardhat Days
After my epic travails with the laptop, I had to clock some serious catch-up time. I'll pulled on the hardhat and leaned into it. My life turned into: wake up, flip on the Mac, work until one, go to the gym, eat lunch, work until nine or ten, pour some wine and write until I fell asleep.
Not too different from the days I worked for seven years at my former gig. But now I had the added satisfaction of knowing that every minute I put in was a minute spent furthering the goals I have for myself and my clients.
I'm not quite up to speed, but I'm close enough that I feel like I'll be able to round the corner by the end of the weekend, and figured I could spend a few minutes on an update.
My initial decision to start a company was abrupt; it occurred within the moment and, though I took a few minutes to make a couple of calls and bounce the feasibility of the idea around, I knew I was going to take this direction.
But I hadn't gathered a war chest, or lain a lot of track. So I've been handling really mundane aspects of the business while flipping around and doing the creative work. I don't mind, I'm used to wearing a lot of hats, and switching them throughout the day,
But, by a stroke of luck, it turned out my timing was perfect. Thanks to the holidays, I was not only able to get a stable of writers together, I also have the opportunity to develop the slate while the town is idling in neutral. I've been making submissions but, except for the novel, I haven't taken anything wide.
When 2010 rolls around, I'll be ready with a fully developed slate: follow-ups on the novel, another book, and five scripts. Seven projects. My plan is to launch these projects wide, one after the other. And they're all coming along well... they'll be ready.
I'll be doing a much different kind of work in January and February than I've been doing in November and December. I can't fucking wait.
Not too different from the days I worked for seven years at my former gig. But now I had the added satisfaction of knowing that every minute I put in was a minute spent furthering the goals I have for myself and my clients.
I'm not quite up to speed, but I'm close enough that I feel like I'll be able to round the corner by the end of the weekend, and figured I could spend a few minutes on an update.
My initial decision to start a company was abrupt; it occurred within the moment and, though I took a few minutes to make a couple of calls and bounce the feasibility of the idea around, I knew I was going to take this direction.
But I hadn't gathered a war chest, or lain a lot of track. So I've been handling really mundane aspects of the business while flipping around and doing the creative work. I don't mind, I'm used to wearing a lot of hats, and switching them throughout the day,
But, by a stroke of luck, it turned out my timing was perfect. Thanks to the holidays, I was not only able to get a stable of writers together, I also have the opportunity to develop the slate while the town is idling in neutral. I've been making submissions but, except for the novel, I haven't taken anything wide.
When 2010 rolls around, I'll be ready with a fully developed slate: follow-ups on the novel, another book, and five scripts. Seven projects. My plan is to launch these projects wide, one after the other. And they're all coming along well... they'll be ready.
I'll be doing a much different kind of work in January and February than I've been doing in November and December. I can't fucking wait.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Rejoice, For I Am Now a Mac Guy
I've been in business for myself for seven weeks. I've spent that majority of that time fucking with my beater of a laptop. Every time it went into the shop, it cost me days of productivity. Perfect timing.
Open letter to Gateway:
"Dear Gateway,
Fuck you.
Sincerely Yours,
Michael T. Kuciak"
At last, it completely crapped out on me. By this time, I was not only burned out on Gateway, I was done with PC as a whole, forever. I went to the Apple store and got a MacBook.
Except for working on Macs in various writing gigs and internships, I've been a PC guy my whole life. It takes some getting used to, but I can say right off... I love it. And it's refreshing to finally have a machine that actually, like, does stuff. And works.
I'm a simple guy. I don't ask for much. For example, with a laptop I don't need it to write my scripts for me, render high-end CGI or give me a shiatsu massage in the morning. I just need it to do stuff like handle email and let me write. Not a tall order, huh? But those simple tasks were way beyond my former machine.
Baseline, I just need a computer that doesn't fuck with me.
Overjoyed at finally having a machine that operates and stuff, I've been putting in massive work days. Hard hat on, eye of the tiger alight, it's been early in the morning to late at night, with breaks only for gym and lunch. I put in nineteen hours on the machine yesterday. I slept late this morning (nine... for me, that's like waking up at noon). It wasn't like I'd been swinging a sledge hammer all day - which I've done. I guess my brain was tired. Too damn bad.
Let the rocking once again commence.
Open letter to Gateway:
"Dear Gateway,
Fuck you.
Sincerely Yours,
Michael T. Kuciak"
At last, it completely crapped out on me. By this time, I was not only burned out on Gateway, I was done with PC as a whole, forever. I went to the Apple store and got a MacBook.
Except for working on Macs in various writing gigs and internships, I've been a PC guy my whole life. It takes some getting used to, but I can say right off... I love it. And it's refreshing to finally have a machine that actually, like, does stuff. And works.
I'm a simple guy. I don't ask for much. For example, with a laptop I don't need it to write my scripts for me, render high-end CGI or give me a shiatsu massage in the morning. I just need it to do stuff like handle email and let me write. Not a tall order, huh? But those simple tasks were way beyond my former machine.
Baseline, I just need a computer that doesn't fuck with me.
Overjoyed at finally having a machine that operates and stuff, I've been putting in massive work days. Hard hat on, eye of the tiger alight, it's been early in the morning to late at night, with breaks only for gym and lunch. I put in nineteen hours on the machine yesterday. I slept late this morning (nine... for me, that's like waking up at noon). It wasn't like I'd been swinging a sledge hammer all day - which I've done. I guess my brain was tired. Too damn bad.
Let the rocking once again commence.
Monday, November 23, 2009
I'm Splitting for Arizona Tomorrow
...to hang with my family for Thanksgiving. I'll be gone through Sunday. But, thanks to the magic of laptop technology, and the fact that I'm now self-employed, my productivity will take only the slightest of hits.* It's gonna be a work week, with a brief pause to eat a bird.
Plus, I'm working on the third draft of EXTRADITION. As soon as that's done, I've promised to turn around and work on DESERT RUN. But I've got a horror spec kicking around in my head... I might take a quick detour to crank it out so it'll stop bugging me, something I do every once in a while to keep screenwriting from turning into work. I'll give myself a week... if it's not done in seven days, it gets saved until DESERT RUN is done.
So feel free to break into the lair while I'm gone, though there won't be much to steal... I've spent the last month getting rid of almost everything I own. I'm once again down to the bare essentials. I've found that I feel like my life is figuratively less cluttered when I get rid of the literal clutter. The less I'm lugging around, the happier I am.
On my birthday, I caught a screening of UP IN THE AIR. Clooney's character does these speaking engagements in which he asks people to imagine putting everything they own into a backpack, and think about how heavy it is. Now... the point of that is to show he's a guy who doesn't like attachments - he continues the analogy into relationships. I wouldn't go that far, but when it comes to stuff, I 100% agree.
And I'd like to thank everyone who sent me birthday wishes, and helped me celebrate on either the actual day or this past weekend. I have a feeling this next year is gonna be a big'un...
By the way, LEFT 4 DEAD 2 is awesome.
* Unless my laptop craps out yet again.
Plus, I'm working on the third draft of EXTRADITION. As soon as that's done, I've promised to turn around and work on DESERT RUN. But I've got a horror spec kicking around in my head... I might take a quick detour to crank it out so it'll stop bugging me, something I do every once in a while to keep screenwriting from turning into work. I'll give myself a week... if it's not done in seven days, it gets saved until DESERT RUN is done.
So feel free to break into the lair while I'm gone, though there won't be much to steal... I've spent the last month getting rid of almost everything I own. I'm once again down to the bare essentials. I've found that I feel like my life is figuratively less cluttered when I get rid of the literal clutter. The less I'm lugging around, the happier I am.
On my birthday, I caught a screening of UP IN THE AIR. Clooney's character does these speaking engagements in which he asks people to imagine putting everything they own into a backpack, and think about how heavy it is. Now... the point of that is to show he's a guy who doesn't like attachments - he continues the analogy into relationships. I wouldn't go that far, but when it comes to stuff, I 100% agree.
And I'd like to thank everyone who sent me birthday wishes, and helped me celebrate on either the actual day or this past weekend. I have a feeling this next year is gonna be a big'un...
By the way, LEFT 4 DEAD 2 is awesome.
* Unless my laptop craps out yet again.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Today is My Birthday
Now that I'm self-employed, I have the freedom to sit around all day playing LEFT 4 DEAD 2, followed with super-drunken action.
Not me. I'm gonna celebrate, don't get me wrong. But there's no better present than seeing this business take off, so I'm putting in a full day. Shit, I've been working since 8am.
Sincere thanks to everyone who's sent me birthday wishes... I see this less of a celebration that I've been hanging around for another year, than a celebration of all the cool stuff that's gone on for the past twelve months. And with everything on the horizon, it's looking like my next b-day will be a sweet reward for all of the hard work.
Not me. I'm gonna celebrate, don't get me wrong. But there's no better present than seeing this business take off, so I'm putting in a full day. Shit, I've been working since 8am.
Sincere thanks to everyone who's sent me birthday wishes... I see this less of a celebration that I've been hanging around for another year, than a celebration of all the cool stuff that's gone on for the past twelve months. And with everything on the horizon, it's looking like my next b-day will be a sweet reward for all of the hard work.
Monday, November 16, 2009
The First 30 Days
As of today, Samurai MK has been in existence for thirty days.
I'm still laying groundwork, but at it's definitely coming together by degrees. Regardless, I haven't let that stop me from getting work done, developing a slate for the spring sell season, getting a script out to a director, and shopping a novel. I don't expect to make sales during the holidays, so I'm not fretting that part... this is the build-up time for first quarter 2010.
Some lessons learned:
If you think something will take an hour, it'll take a day.
If you think it'll take a day, it'll take two days.
If you think something will take two days, it'll require a week.
And if you think something will take a week, odds are you'll still be futzing with it a month later.
The trick, I've found, isn't to sit around and cry about how mean and inefficient the world is... it's a matter of being productive in the interim so, when you are back on track, your focus is 100% on the tasks at hand.
But the major thing I've learned is the doom of the entrepreneur: I have so much stuff to do - all of it important and time-intensive - that, even if I'm doing one thing, I'm feeling guilty about putting everything else off while the task in front of me gets handled. There's no such thing as priority... it's all priority in some way. The only way to be truly happy would be to have a gang of Jango Fett clones all doing everything at once.
Meanwhile, I'll just have to made do with what I have every day: two hands and twenty-four hours.
On the massive plus side, since I'm no longer bound by anything like official office hours, I'm actually getting a healthy amount of sleep. I'm getting to the gym almost every day, because doing so no longer requires getting up at the crack of dawn or lugging my ass over there after a twelve-hour day, still thinking about the writing I need to do.
This doesn't sound like a huge deal, but I think this attention to baseline quality-of-life will have further repercussions in my work and productivity. Being able to hit the gym at noon gives me a clarity throughout the rest of the afternoon when, before, I'd start to lag at four or five. Getting sleep means I don't have to prop myself up with caffeine in the morning (though I still do, because I like black coffee).
And, outside of technical difficulties, there's nothing getting in the way of focus on projects in which I believe. I'm only signing projects I 100% love. Every title on my slate is a high point.
Thirty days in, and I'm loving it more every morning I wake up and realize my destiny is within my power.
I'm still laying groundwork, but at it's definitely coming together by degrees. Regardless, I haven't let that stop me from getting work done, developing a slate for the spring sell season, getting a script out to a director, and shopping a novel. I don't expect to make sales during the holidays, so I'm not fretting that part... this is the build-up time for first quarter 2010.
Some lessons learned:
If you think something will take an hour, it'll take a day.
If you think it'll take a day, it'll take two days.
If you think something will take two days, it'll require a week.
And if you think something will take a week, odds are you'll still be futzing with it a month later.
The trick, I've found, isn't to sit around and cry about how mean and inefficient the world is... it's a matter of being productive in the interim so, when you are back on track, your focus is 100% on the tasks at hand.
But the major thing I've learned is the doom of the entrepreneur: I have so much stuff to do - all of it important and time-intensive - that, even if I'm doing one thing, I'm feeling guilty about putting everything else off while the task in front of me gets handled. There's no such thing as priority... it's all priority in some way. The only way to be truly happy would be to have a gang of Jango Fett clones all doing everything at once.
Meanwhile, I'll just have to made do with what I have every day: two hands and twenty-four hours.
On the massive plus side, since I'm no longer bound by anything like official office hours, I'm actually getting a healthy amount of sleep. I'm getting to the gym almost every day, because doing so no longer requires getting up at the crack of dawn or lugging my ass over there after a twelve-hour day, still thinking about the writing I need to do.
This doesn't sound like a huge deal, but I think this attention to baseline quality-of-life will have further repercussions in my work and productivity. Being able to hit the gym at noon gives me a clarity throughout the rest of the afternoon when, before, I'd start to lag at four or five. Getting sleep means I don't have to prop myself up with caffeine in the morning (though I still do, because I like black coffee).
And, outside of technical difficulties, there's nothing getting in the way of focus on projects in which I believe. I'm only signing projects I 100% love. Every title on my slate is a high point.
Thirty days in, and I'm loving it more every morning I wake up and realize my destiny is within my power.
Here's Why You Shouldn't Buy a Gateway Laptop
Back in 2006, I was broke as fuck. I mean... living off ramen noodles and stacks of quarters broke. But that's what life was like in 2004 and 2005, so I was kinda used to it by that point.
But that didn't diminish my dismay when the PC I'd bought in 2002 finally staggered and died in my arms. No amount of tech support calls so I could talk to some guy sitting in India, reading me pre-packaged responses taken from a color-coded plastic binder could fix it.
By an AMAZING coincidence, right then I got a bonus check for DEMON KEEPER. Sometimes, the karma pays off. It wasn't that much, I had bills and, long/short, I couldn't dump the whole bonus on getting something whizz-bang awesome. Since I spent so much time at the office, all I really needed a home computer for was to write. I needed a typewriter, end of story.
So I went to Best Buy and scored the Gateway laptop I have now. It was on sale. It was cheap. It wasn't super-powerful but - again - I just needed a typewriter. Boom, bought it.
From 2006 to 2009, it gave me nary a peep of trouble. I had exactly two programs running on it... Final Draft (for scripts) and Word (for everything else).
On 10/15 2009, I worked my last day at the office. On 10/16 2009, I started my own business, Samurai MK. I now had to ask my laptop to do a bit more. Realize... not MUCH more. I'm not exactly rendering CGI over here. I'm talking email, Office... and little else. Basic, basic computer-type stuff.
At every opportunity the Gateway had the chance to step up to the modest challenges, it failed.
The first week of business, I was connecting to the internet via wireless. Suddenly, the laptop decided it didn't want to, anymore. So I called Warner cable, and wasted a day of productivity waiting for those guys to show up. They did, I got DSL installed. Back to work, right?
Hardee-har.
I couldn't install Office because, guess what? The disk reader didn't want to work. Okay... hunt around online, find the best-rated repair place in LA. Drive it over there... they don't work on Gateway. Okay, who does? THIS guy works on Gateway... fine, thanks. Drive over to the other guy's place. He checks it out, has to order a new part. Okay, I expected that, go for it. And while he's at it, throw in some extra memory so it doesn't take a hundred years to open an email. My laptop was suuuuuper slow.
But guess what, number two? It's Friday, which means we're going into the weekend, so it's gonna be an extra couple of days of fucking around, waiting for the Pony Express delivery rider to show up from China.
Meanwhile, the laptop eats a script I was literally within an hour of turning in. Luckily for me, Leonard was able to hunt it up. Whew.
Get the laptop back from the dude. It reads disks, it runs fast. AWESOME. Now I can - at last - get back to work without dealing with random bullshit...
Man plans, and God laughs, while computers sing a sad, sad song.
On Wednesday - THREE DAYS after getting it back the first time - the screen suddenly goes gray. What the fuck?! Nothing I do fixes it. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuckin'-FUCK.
Call the dude back. Sure, bring it in... tomorrow.
I spend the rest of that night not getting work done. Next day, bring it in. You know you're in trouble when an experienced, well-reviewed repair guy looks at your laptop and says, "What the hell?" He'd never seen this before. He's gotta take it apart, figure it out.
Shit.
Swing over by John's, get some email written and read and some light work done, but a bunch of stuff is going only partially done, or not done at all, due to technical difficulties beyond my control.
The next day, I call the dude. The laptop is not done yet. I'm pacing. I call him back and let him know that I need this thing so I can get some work done. Monday isn't gonna work. He says... call me first thing tomorrow morning.
To his credit, HE calls ME. Nine am today. Saturday. I swing out, get the machine. He explains that the FUCKING SCREEN has failed. Do I have an external monitor to which I can hook it? Sure... one of the benefits of going through all of my shit and getting rid of stuff is the fact that I have an EXACT inventory of what I currently own (less and less, thank God). In the past, I would have hemmed and hawed and gone home, sweating and hoping that I had a monitor. In this case, I knew for an absolute fact that I had a monitor, because I'd spent half an hour dusting it off a couple of days ago. So... the answer was YES, I DO have a monitor.
Again to his credit: I asked him how much I owed him. He said nothing. It's not a total fix, but he got me back to work for free. As a start-up entrepreneur... that's music to my ears. Good karma all around.
Now my laptop works, and I have a screen by which I can work it. Only thing is, I have this full-sized monitor perched on top of the laptop, which obviates its use as a portable computing tool in the first place. Right now, it's basically just a weak tower.
I would like to congratulate Gateway for making and selling products which are, at least, consistent... consistently disappointing, at every single fucking turn.
Another long/short... this whole episode only drives me to succeed that much more. I'm burning with a desire not just to be rich, not just to have credits and gets books published and movies produced, but also to own a Mac rig that won't fuck with me so much that the work of starting a business and getting it off the ground has been exponentially harder because of something that SHOULD be making my life easier.
So let me wrap up this little bitch session and get back to work before my laptop dreams up a new way to fail...
The moral of story: don't buy Gateway.
* As an addendum, every cloud has a silver lining. Even though I can't lug my laptop to a hipster H'wood coffee shop and get work done, and the rig is a bit Frankenstein'd together... a separate monitor is a much easier format on which to read scripts. So there ya go...
But that didn't diminish my dismay when the PC I'd bought in 2002 finally staggered and died in my arms. No amount of tech support calls so I could talk to some guy sitting in India, reading me pre-packaged responses taken from a color-coded plastic binder could fix it.
By an AMAZING coincidence, right then I got a bonus check for DEMON KEEPER. Sometimes, the karma pays off. It wasn't that much, I had bills and, long/short, I couldn't dump the whole bonus on getting something whizz-bang awesome. Since I spent so much time at the office, all I really needed a home computer for was to write. I needed a typewriter, end of story.
So I went to Best Buy and scored the Gateway laptop I have now. It was on sale. It was cheap. It wasn't super-powerful but - again - I just needed a typewriter. Boom, bought it.
From 2006 to 2009, it gave me nary a peep of trouble. I had exactly two programs running on it... Final Draft (for scripts) and Word (for everything else).
On 10/15 2009, I worked my last day at the office. On 10/16 2009, I started my own business, Samurai MK. I now had to ask my laptop to do a bit more. Realize... not MUCH more. I'm not exactly rendering CGI over here. I'm talking email, Office... and little else. Basic, basic computer-type stuff.
At every opportunity the Gateway had the chance to step up to the modest challenges, it failed.
The first week of business, I was connecting to the internet via wireless. Suddenly, the laptop decided it didn't want to, anymore. So I called Warner cable, and wasted a day of productivity waiting for those guys to show up. They did, I got DSL installed. Back to work, right?
Hardee-har.
I couldn't install Office because, guess what? The disk reader didn't want to work. Okay... hunt around online, find the best-rated repair place in LA. Drive it over there... they don't work on Gateway. Okay, who does? THIS guy works on Gateway... fine, thanks. Drive over to the other guy's place. He checks it out, has to order a new part. Okay, I expected that, go for it. And while he's at it, throw in some extra memory so it doesn't take a hundred years to open an email. My laptop was suuuuuper slow.
But guess what, number two? It's Friday, which means we're going into the weekend, so it's gonna be an extra couple of days of fucking around, waiting for the Pony Express delivery rider to show up from China.
Meanwhile, the laptop eats a script I was literally within an hour of turning in. Luckily for me, Leonard was able to hunt it up. Whew.
Get the laptop back from the dude. It reads disks, it runs fast. AWESOME. Now I can - at last - get back to work without dealing with random bullshit...
Man plans, and God laughs, while computers sing a sad, sad song.
On Wednesday - THREE DAYS after getting it back the first time - the screen suddenly goes gray. What the fuck?! Nothing I do fixes it. Fuckity-fuck-fuck-fuckin'-
Call the dude back. Sure, bring it in... tomorrow.
I spend the rest of that night not getting work done. Next day, bring it in. You know you're in trouble when an experienced, well-reviewed repair guy looks at your laptop and says, "What the hell?" He'd never seen this before. He's gotta take it apart, figure it out.
Shit.
Swing over by John's, get some email written and read and some light work done, but a bunch of stuff is going only partially done, or not done at all, due to technical difficulties beyond my control.
The next day, I call the dude. The laptop is not done yet. I'm pacing. I call him back and let him know that I need this thing so I can get some work done. Monday isn't gonna work. He says... call me first thing tomorrow morning.
To his credit, HE calls ME. Nine am today. Saturday. I swing out, get the machine. He explains that the FUCKING SCREEN has failed. Do I have an external monitor to which I can hook it? Sure... one of the benefits of going through all of my shit and getting rid of stuff is the fact that I have an EXACT inventory of what I currently own (less and less, thank God). In the past, I would have hemmed and hawed and gone home, sweating and hoping that I had a monitor. In this case, I knew for an absolute fact that I had a monitor, because I'd spent half an hour dusting it off a couple of days ago. So... the answer was YES, I DO have a monitor.
Again to his credit: I asked him how much I owed him. He said nothing. It's not a total fix, but he got me back to work for free. As a start-up entrepreneur... that's music to my ears. Good karma all around.
Now my laptop works, and I have a screen by which I can work it. Only thing is, I have this full-sized monitor perched on top of the laptop, which obviates its use as a portable computing tool in the first place. Right now, it's basically just a weak tower.
I would like to congratulate Gateway for making and selling products which are, at least, consistent... consistently disappointing, at every single fucking turn.
Another long/short... this whole episode only drives me to succeed that much more. I'm burning with a desire not just to be rich, not just to have credits and gets books published and movies produced, but also to own a Mac rig that won't fuck with me so much that the work of starting a business and getting it off the ground has been exponentially harder because of something that SHOULD be making my life easier.
So let me wrap up this little bitch session and get back to work before my laptop dreams up a new way to fail...
The moral of story: don't buy Gateway.
* As an addendum, every cloud has a silver lining. Even though I can't lug my laptop to a hipster H'wood coffee shop and get work done, and the rig is a bit Frankenstein'd together... a separate monitor is a much easier format on which to read scripts. So there ya go...
Thursday, November 5, 2009
And There Was Much Rejoicing
After slightly less than one billion years, the parts that will lead to the upgrading and repairing of my laptop have arrived. I go now to get them installed.
And there was a mighty huzzah!
And there was a mighty huzzah!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Books and Clothes
As part of my continuing efforts to rid myself of old patterns and further streamline my life, I've been going through everything I own and losing as much as possible.
To that end, I've been putting a little time into it each day, and a lot of time when able.
Last week, I leaned into my books. I have a lot. Most of them, I read once and set aside. I can't throw away a book, so instead they collect in stacks in my closet and next to my bed. Ugh. I sat down and separated them into two stacks: Core Titles, and Books that Can Go Away.
You call a stack of books something like "Core Titles," and you expect it to be small, an elite squadron of the best of the best. But I define a Core Title as any book that I could imagine myself wanting to re-read, and being bummed that it isn't just sitting on a shelf, patiently waiting for that happy moment.
True, the over-riding rule of my stuff purge has been "anything I haven't used, touched, read, listened to or worn in the past year... goes." Books are the exception. For instance, I don't read THE MASTER AND MARGARITA every year, but I definitely get back into that one every couple of years. It stays. My stack of Core Titles is higher than expected.
I've been taking the Books that Can Go Away to the library in lots of twenty or so at a time. I don't want to overwhelm them. They get a little persnickety if you dump a ton of books in their laps. Instead of thinking, "Boy howdy, free books!", they see it as work. Such is the life of a librarian.
I did a quick cull of my clothes last week. That wasn't hard. But it wasn't until last night that I really got into it, doing a load of laundry, emptying the closet and throwing the entire sad affair into a big pile on my bed to be sorted and judged.
Some interesting facts quickly came to light:
a) I have a ton of fucking socks. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was idly thinking of getting more black socks. I was re-washing the same six or seven pairs every week. But that seemed weird... I have this giant pile of socks sitting around, right? Why do I keep going back to the same pairs? What's going on with that?
In truly spreading them all out and taking a good, hard look at this sock situation, I recognized an emerging pattern... Whenever I did laundry and put it away and found a single sock without a brother, I'd set it off to the side. I don't know why... perhaps, in the back of my mind, I thought the other one would show up from under the bed or from behind a dresser or something. This went on for SEVEN YEARS, finally bringing me to the moment I was standing next to my bed, shaking my head at a pile composed of dozens of single socks.
See what I mean? We do stuff... not exactly NOT thinking about it, but BARELY thinking about it, just enough to go through a series of motions without any actual thought. Though this is so minor I'm almost embarrassed by the fact that I'm blogging about adventures in my sock drawer, but God is in the details. In some small way, this is exactly the kind of thing I'm in the process of ridding from my life.
Fucking SOCKS, dude. I don't even know what to do with the goddamn things. Do I give a big pile of single socks to Goodwill, and inflict my mismatched sock curse on a charitable organization? Or do I toss 'em?
b) I found a stack of pants I'd brought out with me from Chicago. They're all khakis and such, business casual-type pants. I thought, "Ah ha, more pants." A good thing. Again, you never know what your true resources are until you look. But then I tried them on... and they were all too big. When I came out to LA, I was wearing a 34. These days, I'm either a 30 or 32, depending on the specific pair. I don't really feel any different, but I guess I'm in better shape these days.
Well, there's some good news, huh?
To that end, I've been putting a little time into it each day, and a lot of time when able.
Last week, I leaned into my books. I have a lot. Most of them, I read once and set aside. I can't throw away a book, so instead they collect in stacks in my closet and next to my bed. Ugh. I sat down and separated them into two stacks: Core Titles, and Books that Can Go Away.
You call a stack of books something like "Core Titles," and you expect it to be small, an elite squadron of the best of the best. But I define a Core Title as any book that I could imagine myself wanting to re-read, and being bummed that it isn't just sitting on a shelf, patiently waiting for that happy moment.
True, the over-riding rule of my stuff purge has been "anything I haven't used, touched, read, listened to or worn in the past year... goes." Books are the exception. For instance, I don't read THE MASTER AND MARGARITA every year, but I definitely get back into that one every couple of years. It stays. My stack of Core Titles is higher than expected.
I've been taking the Books that Can Go Away to the library in lots of twenty or so at a time. I don't want to overwhelm them. They get a little persnickety if you dump a ton of books in their laps. Instead of thinking, "Boy howdy, free books!", they see it as work. Such is the life of a librarian.
I did a quick cull of my clothes last week. That wasn't hard. But it wasn't until last night that I really got into it, doing a load of laundry, emptying the closet and throwing the entire sad affair into a big pile on my bed to be sorted and judged.
Some interesting facts quickly came to light:
a) I have a ton of fucking socks. Just a couple of weeks ago, I was idly thinking of getting more black socks. I was re-washing the same six or seven pairs every week. But that seemed weird... I have this giant pile of socks sitting around, right? Why do I keep going back to the same pairs? What's going on with that?
In truly spreading them all out and taking a good, hard look at this sock situation, I recognized an emerging pattern... Whenever I did laundry and put it away and found a single sock without a brother, I'd set it off to the side. I don't know why... perhaps, in the back of my mind, I thought the other one would show up from under the bed or from behind a dresser or something. This went on for SEVEN YEARS, finally bringing me to the moment I was standing next to my bed, shaking my head at a pile composed of dozens of single socks.
See what I mean? We do stuff... not exactly NOT thinking about it, but BARELY thinking about it, just enough to go through a series of motions without any actual thought. Though this is so minor I'm almost embarrassed by the fact that I'm blogging about adventures in my sock drawer, but God is in the details. In some small way, this is exactly the kind of thing I'm in the process of ridding from my life.
Fucking SOCKS, dude. I don't even know what to do with the goddamn things. Do I give a big pile of single socks to Goodwill, and inflict my mismatched sock curse on a charitable organization? Or do I toss 'em?
b) I found a stack of pants I'd brought out with me from Chicago. They're all khakis and such, business casual-type pants. I thought, "Ah ha, more pants." A good thing. Again, you never know what your true resources are until you look. But then I tried them on... and they were all too big. When I came out to LA, I was wearing a 34. These days, I'm either a 30 or 32, depending on the specific pair. I don't really feel any different, but I guess I'm in better shape these days.
Well, there's some good news, huh?
Monday, November 2, 2009
I Have Signed Seven Clients
I could sign more, but I have put a momentary pause on my search for new talent unless someone/thing strikes me as the most absolutely brilliant thing ever.
The reason are both practical and symbolic.
Practical: I'm still in the process of getting the infrastructure of this company together. From incorporation to office supplies, everything takes three times longer than I expect it to, and then I'm always learning about something new I've "forgotten."
I've worked for myself twice before: my record label, and when I was a PA/grip. Both times, I wasn't very serious about the foundation. I was perhaps immature in that sense and, to the surprise of no one, neither endeavor turned into anything successful.
This is a blessing and a curse. A curse in the sense that neither company made me wealthy. A blessing because, if they had, I wouldn't be in a situation in which I could do my current work.
Samurai MK is the basis of what I'm now finding to be my true life's work. For that reason, I'm taking this as seriously as fuck, taking my time and doing it right. Thus, it's time expended. The remaining time is better spent doing a good job for my birds in hand, rather than theoretical birds in the bush.
Symbolic: This company is called Samurai MK. I have signed my Seven Samurai.
Dawn, Gabi, Steve, Scott, Ramsey, Alex, Lesley: I owe you all a deep debt for your belief. I'll pay it off with my blood, sweat and tears. My sword used to belong to a company. Now it belongs to you, my Seven Samurai.
Hagakure tells us that anything can be done, if only you decide that it WILL be done.
I WILL see every one of these projects move forward, in some way. Time and work are meaningless when compared to results. Every waking moment - and many sleeping moments - are bent toward that purpose. Only death will stop me.
So... let's strap on our daisho and rock this joint.
The reason are both practical and symbolic.
Practical: I'm still in the process of getting the infrastructure of this company together. From incorporation to office supplies, everything takes three times longer than I expect it to, and then I'm always learning about something new I've "forgotten."
I've worked for myself twice before: my record label, and when I was a PA/grip. Both times, I wasn't very serious about the foundation. I was perhaps immature in that sense and, to the surprise of no one, neither endeavor turned into anything successful.
This is a blessing and a curse. A curse in the sense that neither company made me wealthy. A blessing because, if they had, I wouldn't be in a situation in which I could do my current work.
Samurai MK is the basis of what I'm now finding to be my true life's work. For that reason, I'm taking this as seriously as fuck, taking my time and doing it right. Thus, it's time expended. The remaining time is better spent doing a good job for my birds in hand, rather than theoretical birds in the bush.
Symbolic: This company is called Samurai MK. I have signed my Seven Samurai.
Dawn, Gabi, Steve, Scott, Ramsey, Alex, Lesley: I owe you all a deep debt for your belief. I'll pay it off with my blood, sweat and tears. My sword used to belong to a company. Now it belongs to you, my Seven Samurai.
Hagakure tells us that anything can be done, if only you decide that it WILL be done.
I WILL see every one of these projects move forward, in some way. Time and work are meaningless when compared to results. Every waking moment - and many sleeping moments - are bent toward that purpose. Only death will stop me.
So... let's strap on our daisho and rock this joint.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Fighting
FIGHTING is a movie written and directed by Dito Montiel, starring Channing Tatum as a street guy who becomes an underground fighter. Terrence Howard plays a self-described "two-bit hustler" who becomes his ersatz agent.
I didn't see FIGHTING when it came out last year. I wish I had. FIGHTING is one of the best movies I've seen in a long time. It's an effective companion piece to both RED BELT and HARSH TIMES, both of which are movies I deeply love.
I won't get into a lengthy description: you can find that shit online somewhere. What bears mentioning is this movie, at its core, doesn't do anything new. It obeys the exact same plot pattern as millions of low-budget martial arts movies, some good, most mediocre, some bad.
FIGHTING is set apart by execution. It is, in many ways, a brilliant movie. It tells the truth. The characters and their problems are real. Even when it deals with the artifice of contemporary movie-making -- script structure, character arc, the ending, etc. -- it does so in a way that feels organic to the world in which it exists, itself only a few degrees to the left of the real world.
I saw G.I. JOE in the theaters, mostly because I had a ton of G.I. Joe guys when I was a kid, and a certain degree of nostalgia demanded I see this movie when it came out. That, and a desire to see Sienna Miller as The Baroness (she was good, but not perfect).
My point is Channing Tatum is decent in G.I.JOE, and fucking fantastic in FIGHTING. It's obvious that Channing and Dito were not trying to make a martial arts movie. They weren't trying to make an action movie. They set out to do a Scorsese/DeNiro New York street movie, a MIDNIGHT COWBOY with fists. And they succeeded.
There's a wonderful love story at the heart of FIGHTING. The relationship between Shawn and Zulay is sweet. You love them, and what they have. Again, it's real.
I recently watched a Chilean martial arts movie called KILLTRO, which is similar in some ways. Our guy, Zamir (Marko Zaror), is in love with Kim, the daughter of "the Korean," a local tae kwon do teacher who doesn't like Zamir. Everything in KILLTRO is driven by Zamir's pursuit of Kim's heart. Zamir's portrayed as a very, very simple guy... He's almost child-like, which leads to some unintentional comedy via his clumsy attempts to win her over. He's a somewhat dense character, and doesn't have much else on his mind besides his love for Kim, and the occasional need to beat the crap out of bad guys.
I bring up KILLTRO because Shawn (Tatum) is not exactly a rocket scientist, either. But instead of being a man-child, he's just a guy with a very uncomplicated internal life. Though he has no money and sometimes has to sleep in the park, Shawn pursues Zulay anyway, because his heart leaves him no other choice. It's winning in its purity, and it certainly doesn't hurt that Zulay Henao is a talented actress, and flat-out gorgeous. You get why this guy would want to befriend her protective mother and offer to find the money to help pay her rent.
There's also a very cool parallel story between Shawn and his rep, Harvey. They're both losers who have created one last chance for themselves. In the final fight, Harvey uses every last ounce of his remaining juice on the streets to make the deal, in the exact same way Shawn has to use every last ounce he has to try to win this fight. They have nowhere else to go. They have no one else but each other.
This movie reminds me of ROGUE, in the sense that ROGUE is a very by-the-numbers creature feature, just like so many others, and yet rises above by pure execution. It doesn't reinvent the wheel by any stretch of the imagination, and is still just a good fucking movie. FIGHTING does for underground tournament martial arts movies what ROGUE did for survival horror creature features. There's a lesson to be had in there.
The fight scenes in FIGHTING are also very much of interest. Because this movie is so organic, and you're so much on Shawn's side, there's a real danger felt in these sequences. Except for the climactic fight, Shawn (and the audience) doesn't know who he's going to face until his opponent actually shows up, typically a few seconds before the fight actually begins.
In one scene, Harvey makes a deal, and Shawn is brought forward. He looks up, and there's a HUGE tattoo'd guy sitting on some bleachers, staring down at Shawn and the crowd. As soon as the word's given, the guy just stands up, takes off his jacket and starts marching down the bleachers toward Shawn. In a standard movie of this variety, when the combat starts, we would get a lot of fake-ass bullshit to show you how hip and edgy the filmmakers are, with a pounding techno soundtrack and lots of cuts to keep your eye moving. It's as engaging as watching someone play STREETFIGHTER IV. But because FIGHTING plays it real, when that dude comes down the bleachers, the feeling in your gut is... oooooooooh, shit. The mere fact that Shawn doesn't back down from the guy wins him over that much more.
Something else of note: Shawn is a tough guy, but he's not a master martial artist, special forces guy, what have you. His dad was a wrestling coach, and Shawn wrestled. And... that's it. In FIGHTING, he faces off against guys who are bigger, guys who are better-trained. While they have size, speed, skill and strength, Shawn has a complete disregard for personal safety. He bulldozes into these guys and brings the fight to them.
This seemed very real, as well. I remember when the UFC first started up. There was one match in which this guy with something like a 10th-degree black belt went up against... I think it was Tank Abbott, but don't quote me. Point is, the black belt came out looking to display his skill, and Tank (or whoever) just floored the dude like a truck. It was as surprising as it was educational.
I also once worked a gig as a PA for a company which shot live martial arts events for the internet. I was running cable, and I was ringside. The two fighters came out, and they both had multiple black belts and years of training. But within the first few seconds, the artifice of their training fell away, and they just started brawling, throwing big swings. Despite their training, when it got down to brass tacks, what these guys did was indistinguishable from a bar fight.
My point is, I believed it when Shawn would win... though that also bears mentioning. Shawn doesn't so much win, per se, as he just never quite loses. And if he's not going to lose, then ergo the other guy must lose, if you get my drift.
It reminded me of Rocky. Particularly in the first Rocky movie, and the last, Rocky doesn't win (spoiler). He just doesn't quite lose. He's beaten in points, but the crowd cheers for him. Points or not, they know who the real winner was. Rocky also "wins" in ROCKY III, purely by allowing Clubber Lang to pound on him until he gets tired, and sets himself up for the fall. Again, Rocky spends the majority of the fight just... not losing.
The same deal applies to John McClane. The first DIE HARD pits this drunk New York cop versus a team of well-trained, well-equipped terrorists. McClane wins by not losing. Look at LIVE FREE OR DIE HARD. The villains are better fighters. They're smarter, and have more resources. But take a look at the scene in which McClane fights Maggie Q. She beats the living shit out of him with martial arts. McClane comes back... and tackles her to the ground. Then he runs her over with a car. His tactics are so simple they're almost primitive. The comparison between them on paper makes McClane look ridiculous. The scene's almost played for laughs. But Maggie Q isn't laughing when she eats a car's grille. And who comes out on top at the end of that confrontation?
This seems to be a very American quality.
There's a lesson to be had in all of this. There are times in life when you win. And I think the thing to do between those times is to simply... not lose.
I'm excited about Dito Montiel. I'm going to check out A GUIDE TO RECOGNIZING YOUR SAINTS as soon as possible.
I started film school in the late-'90s. We were still buzzing about the amazing filmmakers who made their bones in that decade: Tarantino, Rodriguez, Fincher, Takeshi, Miike, Woo, etc. Since then, I've been watching to see who would emerge to define the oughts.
I fully realize this is very, VERY subjective, and I may well be overlooking some glaring names, but - after having seen FIGHTING - I think the people we should be looking at are: Dito Montiel, David Ayer, Shane Meadows and Eli Roth. In terms of the latter, I'm of the opinion that HOSTEL II is an as-yet-unrecognized masterpiece. We also may have to add Oren Peli to that list, but I feel like I need to see his next movie, first.
Go see FIGHTING. It's an amazing film.
I didn't see FIGHTING when it came out last year. I wish I had. FIGHTING is one of the best movies I've seen in a long time. It's an effective companion piece to both RED BELT and HARSH TIMES, both of which are movies I deeply love.
I won't get into a lengthy description: you can find that shit online somewhere. What bears mentioning is this movie, at its core, doesn't do anything new. It obeys the exact same plot pattern as millions of low-budget martial arts movies, some good, most mediocre, some bad.
FIGHTING is set apart by execution. It is, in many ways, a brilliant movie. It tells the truth. The characters and their problems are real. Even when it deals with the artifice of contemporary movie-making -- script structure, character arc, the ending, etc. -- it does so in a way that feels organic to the world in which it exists, itself only a few degrees to the left of the real world.
I saw G.I. JOE in the theaters, mostly because I had a ton of G.I. Joe guys when I was a kid, and a certain degree of nostalgia demanded I see this movie when it came out. That, and a desire to see Sienna Miller as The Baroness (she was good, but not perfect).
My point is Channing Tatum is decent in G.I.JOE, and fucking fantastic in FIGHTING. It's obvious that Channing and Dito were not trying to make a martial arts movie. They weren't trying to make an action movie. They set out to do a Scorsese/DeNiro New York street movie, a MIDNIGHT COWBOY with fists. And they succeeded.
There's a wonderful love story at the heart of FIGHTING. The relationship between Shawn and Zulay is sweet. You love them, and what they have. Again, it's real.
I recently watched a Chilean martial arts movie called KILLTRO, which is similar in some ways. Our guy, Zamir (Marko Zaror), is in love with Kim, the daughter of "the Korean," a local tae kwon do teacher who doesn't like Zamir. Everything in KILLTRO is driven by Zamir's pursuit of Kim's heart. Zamir's portrayed as a very, very simple guy... He's almost child-like, which leads to some unintentional comedy via his clumsy attempts to win her over. He's a somewhat dense character, and doesn't have much else on his mind besides his love for Kim, and the occasional need to beat the crap out of bad guys.
I bring up KILLTRO because Shawn (Tatum) is not exactly a rocket scientist, either. But instead of being a man-child, he's just a guy with a very uncomplicated internal life. Though he has no money and sometimes has to sleep in the park, Shawn pursues Zulay anyway, because his heart leaves him no other choice. It's winning in its purity, and it certainly doesn't hurt that Zulay Henao is a talented actress, and flat-out gorgeous. You get why this guy would want to befriend her protective mother and offer to find the money to help pay her rent.
There's also a very cool parallel story between Shawn and his rep, Harvey. They're both losers who have created one last chance for themselves. In the final fight, Harvey uses every last ounce of his remaining juice on the streets to make the deal, in the exact same way Shawn has to use every last ounce he has to try to win this fight. They have nowhere else to go. They have no one else but each other.
This movie reminds me of ROGUE, in the sense that ROGUE is a very by-the-numbers creature feature, just like so many others, and yet rises above by pure execution. It doesn't reinvent the wheel by any stretch of the imagination, and is still just a good fucking movie. FIGHTING does for underground tournament martial arts movies what ROGUE did for survival horror creature features. There's a lesson to be had in there.
The fight scenes in FIGHTING are also very much of interest. Because this movie is so organic, and you're so much on Shawn's side, there's a real danger felt in these sequences. Except for the climactic fight, Shawn (and the audience) doesn't know who he's going to face until his opponent actually shows up, typically a few seconds before the fight actually begins.
In one scene, Harvey makes a deal, and Shawn is brought forward. He looks up, and there's a HUGE tattoo'd guy sitting on some bleachers, staring down at Shawn and the crowd. As soon as the word's given, the guy just stands up, takes off his jacket and starts marching down the bleachers toward Shawn. In a standard movie of this variety, when the combat starts, we would get a lot of fake-ass bullshit to show you how hip and edgy the filmmakers are, with a pounding techno soundtrack and lots of cuts to keep your eye moving. It's as engaging as watching someone play STREETFIGHTER IV. But because FIGHTING plays it real, when that dude comes down the bleachers, the feeling in your gut is... oooooooooh, shit. The mere fact that Shawn doesn't back down from the guy wins him over that much more.
Something else of note: Shawn is a tough guy, but he's not a master martial artist, special forces guy, what have you. His dad was a wrestling coach, and Shawn wrestled. And... that's it. In FIGHTING, he faces off against guys who are bigger, guys who are better-trained. While they have size, speed, skill and strength, Shawn has a complete disregard for personal safety. He bulldozes into these guys and brings the fight to them.
This seemed very real, as well. I remember when the UFC first started up. There was one match in which this guy with something like a 10th-degree black belt went up against... I think it was Tank Abbott, but don't quote me. Point is, the black belt came out looking to display his skill, and Tank (or whoever) just floored the dude like a truck. It was as surprising as it was educational.
I also once worked a gig as a PA for a company which shot live martial arts events for the internet. I was running cable, and I was ringside. The two fighters came out, and they both had multiple black belts and years of training. But within the first few seconds, the artifice of their training fell away, and they just started brawling, throwing big swings. Despite their training, when it got down to brass tacks, what these guys did was indistinguishable from a bar fight.
My point is, I believed it when Shawn would win... though that also bears mentioning. Shawn doesn't so much win, per se, as he just never quite loses. And if he's not going to lose, then ergo the other guy must lose, if you get my drift.
It reminded me of Rocky. Particularly in the first Rocky movie, and the last, Rocky doesn't win (spoiler). He just doesn't quite lose. He's beaten in points, but the crowd cheers for him. Points or not, they know who the real winner was. Rocky also "wins" in ROCKY III, purely by allowing Clubber Lang to pound on him until he gets tired, and sets himself up for the fall. Again, Rocky spends the majority of the fight just... not losing.
The same deal applies to John McClane. The first DIE HARD pits this drunk New York cop versus a team of well-trained, well-equipped terrorists. McClane wins by not losing. Look at LIVE FREE OR DIE HARD. The villains are better fighters. They're smarter, and have more resources. But take a look at the scene in which McClane fights Maggie Q. She beats the living shit out of him with martial arts. McClane comes back... and tackles her to the ground. Then he runs her over with a car. His tactics are so simple they're almost primitive. The comparison between them on paper makes McClane look ridiculous. The scene's almost played for laughs. But Maggie Q isn't laughing when she eats a car's grille. And who comes out on top at the end of that confrontation?
This seems to be a very American quality.
There's a lesson to be had in all of this. There are times in life when you win. And I think the thing to do between those times is to simply... not lose.
I'm excited about Dito Montiel. I'm going to check out A GUIDE TO RECOGNIZING YOUR SAINTS as soon as possible.
I started film school in the late-'90s. We were still buzzing about the amazing filmmakers who made their bones in that decade: Tarantino, Rodriguez, Fincher, Takeshi, Miike, Woo, etc. Since then, I've been watching to see who would emerge to define the oughts.
I fully realize this is very, VERY subjective, and I may well be overlooking some glaring names, but - after having seen FIGHTING - I think the people we should be looking at are: Dito Montiel, David Ayer, Shane Meadows and Eli Roth. In terms of the latter, I'm of the opinion that HOSTEL II is an as-yet-unrecognized masterpiece. We also may have to add Oren Peli to that list, but I feel like I need to see his next movie, first.
Go see FIGHTING. It's an amazing film.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Return of Willy
I worked all day. I'm out to the publishers with a novel, and I got some side work done. I hit the gym, came home and cleaned. I went through my clothes, setting aside a stack for Goodwill. I went to Trader Joe's and got some soup and chicken. I got home, put away the groceries, sat down to work on a script...
...and a big, brown mouse ran from behind my stove to behind my pantry. The same route traditionally taken by mice which have invaded the lair. This happened about two minutes ago.
Imagine my surprise. I thought he (they?) was (were?) dead. Even if he wasn't dead, with all the activity in the lair you'd think he'd keep his head down. But no. This is a brave mouse.
My struggles to de-mousify my lair are well-documented. I set out D-Con. It vanished. Eventually, I didn't see mice anymore. Ergo, Willy ate the poison (hence its disappearance) and died (hence Willy's disappearance). Which brings me to my core question: What the fuck?!
There are several possibilities which could account for the fact that I just saw a mouse:
a) Willy ate the poison I'd set out for him and died. It's a new mouse, whose name isn't Willy.
b) It's Willy. He ate the poison, and recovered.
c) It's Willy. He ate the poison and died, and I just saw his ghost.
If it's the last choice... shit. I should set up a camera and see what's going on while I'm asleep, a la PARANORMAL ACTIVITY. But instead of dragging me out of bed, it's gonna be a lot of mouse turds and vanished food.
Dammit, if that's the case, Micah has no complaints. He got off easy by comparison.
...and a big, brown mouse ran from behind my stove to behind my pantry. The same route traditionally taken by mice which have invaded the lair. This happened about two minutes ago.
Imagine my surprise. I thought he (they?) was (were?) dead. Even if he wasn't dead, with all the activity in the lair you'd think he'd keep his head down. But no. This is a brave mouse.
My struggles to de-mousify my lair are well-documented. I set out D-Con. It vanished. Eventually, I didn't see mice anymore. Ergo, Willy ate the poison (hence its disappearance) and died (hence Willy's disappearance). Which brings me to my core question: What the fuck?!
There are several possibilities which could account for the fact that I just saw a mouse:
a) Willy ate the poison I'd set out for him and died. It's a new mouse, whose name isn't Willy.
b) It's Willy. He ate the poison, and recovered.
c) It's Willy. He ate the poison and died, and I just saw his ghost.
If it's the last choice... shit. I should set up a camera and see what's going on while I'm asleep, a la PARANORMAL ACTIVITY. But instead of dragging me out of bed, it's gonna be a lot of mouse turds and vanished food.
Dammit, if that's the case, Micah has no complaints. He got off easy by comparison.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
I Own a Ton of Crap
I think whenever you do something that changes the basic paradigm of your life -- like, say, leave your job of seven years to start a business -- you should do two things:
a) Reconnect with the things that you consider your core.
b) Take stock of everything else.
To the end of (a), I've reached back to '80s metal and punk. Megadeth, Suicidal Tendencies, AC/DC, Metallica, Motorhead, Minor Threat, DK... Since hanging this shingle, I've been non-stop spinning shit that I've been listening to for so long it's sunken into my DNA.
When was the last time you listened to "Peace Sells... But Who's Buying?" Damn, if that isn't one of the best songs ever written.
With (b), I've been going through my stuff in what little time I have between setting up this company, doing the work of a manager/producer, and rolling the gigs that keep the lights on in the meanwhile.
There was a point of time in my life when I had just a ton of stuff. I owned a lot. I had a house, and it was full of stuff. I had three dinette sets in the basement. I had mountains of books and games. Furniture, electronics, pots and pans. Just a massive pile of... stuff.
In 2001 I decided I was moving to LA. I began the long process of getting rid of everything I owned. I had a yard sale. It was loathsome, but led to me eventually writing FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER, again proving that no experience is without value.
I donated stuff. I gave away stuff. I sold stuff. I threw out stuff. But I always had more stuff. Luckily, as I was getting ready to leave, Chicago got hit with a huge storm and my basement flooded. The water was halfway up the stairs leading down to it. Ordinarily, this would have been a disaster. But it forced me to just throw out everything that had been in the basement, instead of spending a month going through it all and deciding what to do with every little thing. Out it went, in massive piles of trash. The garbage men were pissed. I had to go to the alderman and get a license to dump all the crap.
I loaded up my van and headed west. The van was full of more stuff. I had to jettison a bunch of it when the van bit the dust 300 miles south of Chicago. But I still ending up in LA with a bunch of stuff. I gave some of it away. I still had stuff.
I bounced from one apartment to the next, looking for a place to live that didn't include insane people. At every turn, I lost more of the stuff that I was lugging around.
By the time I landed at the lair, I had .0001 percent of the stuff I'd started with in Chicago, way back in '01. I tried to strip myself down even further.
But in the past week, I've been delving into my stuff, shaking up the paradigm, looking to lighten my load... and I'm STILL faced with a ton of crap I didn't even know I had. Bedspreads. Paper reams. Alarm clocks. A dozen binders. A mini-fridge. Ties I've never worn. Shit, I found a set of three crescent wrenches still in the plastic. Who knew what was lurking in the back of my closet?
I can't have too little. Everything I own feels like a burden.
I have dozens and dozens and dozens of books. I'm going to keep the core titles - per (a) above - and give the rest to the library. The rest of the shit is going up on ebay and craigslist. If I don't use something at least once within a year, it's gone.
George Carlin was right: at a certain point, you stop owning your stuff, and your stuff starts owning you. I refuse to spend one second on my stuff. I'd rather spend the time on work and ideas. Very few things are of real value to me, and then for specific reasons. My motorcycle, because it gets me around town. My laptop, because it lets me work. My cell phone, which lets me communicate. My Xbox 360, because it spins music, movies and games, etc... My dream house would have very little in it.
I've left my job behind. Now it's time to leave my stuff behind.
a) Reconnect with the things that you consider your core.
b) Take stock of everything else.
To the end of (a), I've reached back to '80s metal and punk. Megadeth, Suicidal Tendencies, AC/DC, Metallica, Motorhead, Minor Threat, DK... Since hanging this shingle, I've been non-stop spinning shit that I've been listening to for so long it's sunken into my DNA.
When was the last time you listened to "Peace Sells... But Who's Buying?" Damn, if that isn't one of the best songs ever written.
With (b), I've been going through my stuff in what little time I have between setting up this company, doing the work of a manager/producer, and rolling the gigs that keep the lights on in the meanwhile.
There was a point of time in my life when I had just a ton of stuff. I owned a lot. I had a house, and it was full of stuff. I had three dinette sets in the basement. I had mountains of books and games. Furniture, electronics, pots and pans. Just a massive pile of... stuff.
In 2001 I decided I was moving to LA. I began the long process of getting rid of everything I owned. I had a yard sale. It was loathsome, but led to me eventually writing FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER, again proving that no experience is without value.
I donated stuff. I gave away stuff. I sold stuff. I threw out stuff. But I always had more stuff. Luckily, as I was getting ready to leave, Chicago got hit with a huge storm and my basement flooded. The water was halfway up the stairs leading down to it. Ordinarily, this would have been a disaster. But it forced me to just throw out everything that had been in the basement, instead of spending a month going through it all and deciding what to do with every little thing. Out it went, in massive piles of trash. The garbage men were pissed. I had to go to the alderman and get a license to dump all the crap.
I loaded up my van and headed west. The van was full of more stuff. I had to jettison a bunch of it when the van bit the dust 300 miles south of Chicago. But I still ending up in LA with a bunch of stuff. I gave some of it away. I still had stuff.
I bounced from one apartment to the next, looking for a place to live that didn't include insane people. At every turn, I lost more of the stuff that I was lugging around.
By the time I landed at the lair, I had .0001 percent of the stuff I'd started with in Chicago, way back in '01. I tried to strip myself down even further.
But in the past week, I've been delving into my stuff, shaking up the paradigm, looking to lighten my load... and I'm STILL faced with a ton of crap I didn't even know I had. Bedspreads. Paper reams. Alarm clocks. A dozen binders. A mini-fridge. Ties I've never worn. Shit, I found a set of three crescent wrenches still in the plastic. Who knew what was lurking in the back of my closet?
I can't have too little. Everything I own feels like a burden.
I have dozens and dozens and dozens of books. I'm going to keep the core titles - per (a) above - and give the rest to the library. The rest of the shit is going up on ebay and craigslist. If I don't use something at least once within a year, it's gone.
George Carlin was right: at a certain point, you stop owning your stuff, and your stuff starts owning you. I refuse to spend one second on my stuff. I'd rather spend the time on work and ideas. Very few things are of real value to me, and then for specific reasons. My motorcycle, because it gets me around town. My laptop, because it lets me work. My cell phone, which lets me communicate. My Xbox 360, because it spins music, movies and games, etc... My dream house would have very little in it.
I've left my job behind. Now it's time to leave my stuff behind.
Friday, October 16, 2009
I Have Left My Job to Start a New Company
After seven years with AEI, I have left my position as senior vice president of development to hang my own shingle.
I owe them the deepest gratitude for taking a chance on me, am parting under the most amicable of circumstances, and will continue to work with them on projects in the future.
I was also given the opportunity to work with a group of amazing and talented writers, from whom I learned more than can be measured.
The new venture, Samurai MK, is a management/production company which will sell books, scripts and graphic novels, and produce film, television and internet projects.
It's my intention to keep the business model fluid as I move forward to quickly adapt to the changing landscape in all areas of media and entertainment. But I'll never waver from the core philosophies of honesty, hard work and making sure every project the company takes on is, in some way, awesome.
To everyone who's already contacted me, sincere thanks for your kind words. It's my intention to earn the generosity and support I've gotten thus far.
I'll also continue writing screenplays and novels, as to do otherwise would jeopardize my sanity, and maintain my representation by my friends at Zero Gravity Management.
And now... in the immortal words of Hudson in ALIENS: "Let's rock."
Cheers,
Mike Kuciak
Samurai MK
mike.samuraimk@gmail.com
I owe them the deepest gratitude for taking a chance on me, am parting under the most amicable of circumstances, and will continue to work with them on projects in the future.
I was also given the opportunity to work with a group of amazing and talented writers, from whom I learned more than can be measured.
The new venture, Samurai MK, is a management/production company which will sell books, scripts and graphic novels, and produce film, television and internet projects.
It's my intention to keep the business model fluid as I move forward to quickly adapt to the changing landscape in all areas of media and entertainment. But I'll never waver from the core philosophies of honesty, hard work and making sure every project the company takes on is, in some way, awesome.
To everyone who's already contacted me, sincere thanks for your kind words. It's my intention to earn the generosity and support I've gotten thus far.
I'll also continue writing screenplays and novels, as to do otherwise would jeopardize my sanity, and maintain my representation by my friends at Zero Gravity Management.
And now... in the immortal words of Hudson in ALIENS: "Let's rock."
Cheers,
Mike Kuciak
Samurai MK
mike.samuraimk@gmail.com
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
A Rather Thorough Cleaning
Every once in a while, I get a bug up my ass to clean the lair. I'm not an atrocious slob - there aren't any flies involved, for instance - but I'm a single guy who's rarely home, so it's not like my place sees the business end of a feather duster on a regular.
But the times I'd cleaned before have been, again, the single guy version. This past weekend, I decided to really lean into it, get for reals, yo. I'm talking about scrubbing every inch of the bathroom, getting under the sink, wiping down the cabinets, taking down the blinds, attacking the stove until it looks new, everything.
And, after two days, I'm only about a third done.
I made a couple of interesting discoveries along the way:
a) No spiders. I'd prepared myself to run across Shelob somewhere in the lair's nooks and crannies. But I didn't find anything... no big 'uns, no spindlies, nothing. Seeing as I used to get black widows, I can't say I'm disappointed to hit a goose egg in the arachnid department.
b) Willie's hide-out. When I had a mouse (mice?), I often saw him (them?) when he dashed from behind my pantry to behind my stove. Now I know why. While attacking the oven, I opened the broiler for the first time since I'd moved in. Let's just say... if I could sell mouse turds for a buck a piece, I'd be at the Harley-Davidson dealership right now.
Not to get all California for a second, but in a sense, I feel as if I were scrubbing away old karma. By removing the layer of mung to which I'd grown accustomed, it's like I've moved into a new apartment. It's all preparation for the next step.
But the times I'd cleaned before have been, again, the single guy version. This past weekend, I decided to really lean into it, get for reals, yo. I'm talking about scrubbing every inch of the bathroom, getting under the sink, wiping down the cabinets, taking down the blinds, attacking the stove until it looks new, everything.
And, after two days, I'm only about a third done.
I made a couple of interesting discoveries along the way:
a) No spiders. I'd prepared myself to run across Shelob somewhere in the lair's nooks and crannies. But I didn't find anything... no big 'uns, no spindlies, nothing. Seeing as I used to get black widows, I can't say I'm disappointed to hit a goose egg in the arachnid department.
b) Willie's hide-out. When I had a mouse (mice?), I often saw him (them?) when he dashed from behind my pantry to behind my stove. Now I know why. While attacking the oven, I opened the broiler for the first time since I'd moved in. Let's just say... if I could sell mouse turds for a buck a piece, I'd be at the Harley-Davidson dealership right now.
Not to get all California for a second, but in a sense, I feel as if I were scrubbing away old karma. By removing the layer of mung to which I'd grown accustomed, it's like I've moved into a new apartment. It's all preparation for the next step.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid
When I was a mere lad, growing up in a log cabin, I watched a lot of WGN, Chicago's very own Channel 9. They ran tons of movies, which I liked. I remember starting to watch PAT GARRETT AND BILLY THE KID, getting bored and turning it off.
Ah, the folly of youth.
Lately, I've been digging into Peckinpah, catching up on titles I'd always meant to see and didn't, and other titles I'd seen before and wanted to revisit. The other day I watched THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND. It's a great movie, but it's also exactly the kind of thriller that doesn't quite hold together... As soon as the movie was over, I thought, "WOW." And about five minutes later, it was, "Wait a minute. Why did he...? And how did they...? And what was up with that thing with the thing...?"
Last night I watched PAT GARRETT AND BILLY THE KID, and I can now say I have a new title in my personal favorite Westerns of all time. Writing, acting, directing... man, the editing is a huge part of what makes this movie great. (Strong editing is actually a through-line I've noticed in all of Peckinpah's movies... it bears investigation).
The story of these two characters is a microcosm of the story of the West. Is Pat Garrett selling out, or growing up? It seems to depend on the situation, and who you ask. Is Billy the last outlaw hero of the American frontier, or a man-child who'd rather go down guns-a-blazin' because he can't think of anything else to do? Again, it could go either way.
The opening scene is laden with an amazing amount of tension, but also does a swift and strong job of drawing this fulcrum relationship. It's masterful. And it maintains that level throughout -- there wasn't a single clunker scene for me.
I loved this movie. I learned from it, both as a film dude and also on a personal level.
THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE UGLY is still my favorite Western of all time, followed by THE UNFORGIVEN. There are a bunch of others I sincerely enjoy, but none of them caught me like this one, so it's safe to say PG&BTK is my number three.
Ah, the folly of youth.
Lately, I've been digging into Peckinpah, catching up on titles I'd always meant to see and didn't, and other titles I'd seen before and wanted to revisit. The other day I watched THE OSTERMAN WEEKEND. It's a great movie, but it's also exactly the kind of thriller that doesn't quite hold together... As soon as the movie was over, I thought, "WOW." And about five minutes later, it was, "Wait a minute. Why did he...? And how did they...? And what was up with that thing with the thing...?"
Last night I watched PAT GARRETT AND BILLY THE KID, and I can now say I have a new title in my personal favorite Westerns of all time. Writing, acting, directing... man, the editing is a huge part of what makes this movie great. (Strong editing is actually a through-line I've noticed in all of Peckinpah's movies... it bears investigation).
The story of these two characters is a microcosm of the story of the West. Is Pat Garrett selling out, or growing up? It seems to depend on the situation, and who you ask. Is Billy the last outlaw hero of the American frontier, or a man-child who'd rather go down guns-a-blazin' because he can't think of anything else to do? Again, it could go either way.
The opening scene is laden with an amazing amount of tension, but also does a swift and strong job of drawing this fulcrum relationship. It's masterful. And it maintains that level throughout -- there wasn't a single clunker scene for me.
I loved this movie. I learned from it, both as a film dude and also on a personal level.
THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE UGLY is still my favorite Western of all time, followed by THE UNFORGIVEN. There are a bunch of others I sincerely enjoy, but none of them caught me like this one, so it's safe to say PG&BTK is my number three.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Bearwatch Bulletin September 24, 2009
According to this article, a bear attacked a group of tourists in Japan.
The article quotes an expert in saying it's unusual for them to attack humans. Yeah, unusual... until they FUCKING DO.
The article quotes an expert in saying it's unusual for them to attack humans. Yeah, unusual... until they FUCKING DO.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Detective Bureau 2-3: Go to Hell Bastards
In some ways, I am an extraordinarily boring person. I am as predictable as the dawn. What I'm referring to is the fact that, if you entitle a movie GO TO HELL BASTARDS, I'm going to watch it, even if you stick DETECTIVE BUREAU 2-3 in front of the cool part.
I once rented a movie called DEATH MACHINE based purely on the title. Shit, you could call a cologne DEATH MACHINE, and I'd buy it. Luckily, it was a pretty good movie. The titular creature is a gorilla-shaped robot with a bear trap for a mouth. Fun times.
DETECTIVE BUREAU 2-3: GO TO HELL BASTARDS is a Japanese yakuza movie from 1963 directed by Seijun Suzuki. I love Japanese movies from the '60s, and I'm a big fan of Seijun Suzuki. I'm a flat-out geek for BRANDED TO KILL. A couple of years ago, I wrote a script called THE MISS MEN, and BRANDED TO KILL was a huge influence.
GO TO HELL BASTARDS isn't nearly as cool as the title, but it still has its charms. It stars Jo Shishido, who was Seijun Suzuki's go-to guy during their peak, his DeNiro to Suzuki's Scorsese.
Not long ago, I watched an interview with Suzuki in which he talked about how he'd gotten sick of cranking out programmers and, to break out of that rut, he decided to shoot something really off-the-wall and idiosyncratic. That movie was BRANDED TO KILL, and it got him fired from his studio contract.
Apparently, GO TO HELL BASTARDS was the kind of movie he was sick of doing. It's a by-the-numbers programmer, hitting every tired beat of the infiltration movie. Sometimes a film can rise above its programmer status by a high level of execution... for example, FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE fits the same paradigm, but it's still fucking great. This one is... okay.
It opens well. A bunch of yakuza buy a truckload of stolen weapons from a crooked soldier who's stationed at a U.S. Army base (which reminded me of BUFFALO SOLDIERS). Another gang shows up, a massive gunfight erupts, and gang#2 makes off with the guns. It looks like it's gonna turn into an all-out war.
Jo Shishida plays a private detective who hears about this on the radio, and sees an angle for making some money off the cops with this case. He shows up and volunteers to infiltrate the gang. The cops have this one guy locked up, who might be a key to solving the case, but there are a hundred armed yakuza outside the station, just waiting for this dude to get let out so they can gun him down. This is a cool scenario... it's a little PRECINCT 13, though the yakuza never attack the station itself.
Jo fakes them out, and helps the guy escape. In exchange, he says he wants to be a part of the gang. The dude's like, sure... but the rest the gang isn't so trusting. This was the best part of the movie for me. I like smart bad guys, and they give Jo a very thorough background check. In fact, they never quite let up, and eventually figure him out long after stupider people would have gotten lazy and given up. Jo keeps upping the ante, and they keep checking and double-checking, asking questions and following up on leads. In a way, they're almost like detectives themselves. It's cool.
Suzuki seems to like song and dance numbers. I've noticed a tendency in his films to just cut to some girls dancing in a disco or something, looking for any excuse to shove one in. I'm not sure if this was a studio mandate, or if he just likes 'em. In GO TO HELL BASTARDS, there are several. The coolest one has Jo meeting the gang at a night club. But... oh shit, the star of the floor show is Jo's ex-girlfriend! He knows she's gonna blow his cover as soon as the song ends. So to keep the song going, Jo jumps up and starts singing and dancing along with her. The yakuza aren't sure what to make of this. Even better: the girl changes the lyrics and starts singing about their relationship, how she loves him despite his flaws. Jo counter-sings, trying to explain what's going on to her without being so obvious about it that he tips his hat to the gangsters. It's a clever scene, and fun.
Speaking of De Niro/Scorsese, I just re-watched AFTER HOURS, which is about as brilliant as a black comedy can get. Watching that and GO TO HELL BASTARDS back-to-back, I noticed that both directors use dynamic camera movements through scenes in a very similar way. It's reminiscent of a more classic style of cinema, and made me think of Hitchcock. These days, it seems we more often see cuts instead of movement. I don't mind cuts, but I prefer the latter... it's a more dynamic way to construct a scene.
So there are things to enjoy in GO TO HELL BASTARDS, though the movie doesn't totally live up to the potential of that title. I liked this movie, but I love BRANDED TO KILL.
I once rented a movie called DEATH MACHINE based purely on the title. Shit, you could call a cologne DEATH MACHINE, and I'd buy it. Luckily, it was a pretty good movie. The titular creature is a gorilla-shaped robot with a bear trap for a mouth. Fun times.
DETECTIVE BUREAU 2-3: GO TO HELL BASTARDS is a Japanese yakuza movie from 1963 directed by Seijun Suzuki. I love Japanese movies from the '60s, and I'm a big fan of Seijun Suzuki. I'm a flat-out geek for BRANDED TO KILL. A couple of years ago, I wrote a script called THE MISS MEN, and BRANDED TO KILL was a huge influence.
GO TO HELL BASTARDS isn't nearly as cool as the title, but it still has its charms. It stars Jo Shishido, who was Seijun Suzuki's go-to guy during their peak, his DeNiro to Suzuki's Scorsese.
Not long ago, I watched an interview with Suzuki in which he talked about how he'd gotten sick of cranking out programmers and, to break out of that rut, he decided to shoot something really off-the-wall and idiosyncratic. That movie was BRANDED TO KILL, and it got him fired from his studio contract.
Apparently, GO TO HELL BASTARDS was the kind of movie he was sick of doing. It's a by-the-numbers programmer, hitting every tired beat of the infiltration movie. Sometimes a film can rise above its programmer status by a high level of execution... for example, FOR A FEW DOLLARS MORE fits the same paradigm, but it's still fucking great. This one is... okay.
It opens well. A bunch of yakuza buy a truckload of stolen weapons from a crooked soldier who's stationed at a U.S. Army base (which reminded me of BUFFALO SOLDIERS). Another gang shows up, a massive gunfight erupts, and gang#2 makes off with the guns. It looks like it's gonna turn into an all-out war.
Jo Shishida plays a private detective who hears about this on the radio, and sees an angle for making some money off the cops with this case. He shows up and volunteers to infiltrate the gang. The cops have this one guy locked up, who might be a key to solving the case, but there are a hundred armed yakuza outside the station, just waiting for this dude to get let out so they can gun him down. This is a cool scenario... it's a little PRECINCT 13, though the yakuza never attack the station itself.
Jo fakes them out, and helps the guy escape. In exchange, he says he wants to be a part of the gang. The dude's like, sure... but the rest the gang isn't so trusting. This was the best part of the movie for me. I like smart bad guys, and they give Jo a very thorough background check. In fact, they never quite let up, and eventually figure him out long after stupider people would have gotten lazy and given up. Jo keeps upping the ante, and they keep checking and double-checking, asking questions and following up on leads. In a way, they're almost like detectives themselves. It's cool.
Suzuki seems to like song and dance numbers. I've noticed a tendency in his films to just cut to some girls dancing in a disco or something, looking for any excuse to shove one in. I'm not sure if this was a studio mandate, or if he just likes 'em. In GO TO HELL BASTARDS, there are several. The coolest one has Jo meeting the gang at a night club. But... oh shit, the star of the floor show is Jo's ex-girlfriend! He knows she's gonna blow his cover as soon as the song ends. So to keep the song going, Jo jumps up and starts singing and dancing along with her. The yakuza aren't sure what to make of this. Even better: the girl changes the lyrics and starts singing about their relationship, how she loves him despite his flaws. Jo counter-sings, trying to explain what's going on to her without being so obvious about it that he tips his hat to the gangsters. It's a clever scene, and fun.
Speaking of De Niro/Scorsese, I just re-watched AFTER HOURS, which is about as brilliant as a black comedy can get. Watching that and GO TO HELL BASTARDS back-to-back, I noticed that both directors use dynamic camera movements through scenes in a very similar way. It's reminiscent of a more classic style of cinema, and made me think of Hitchcock. These days, it seems we more often see cuts instead of movement. I don't mind cuts, but I prefer the latter... it's a more dynamic way to construct a scene.
So there are things to enjoy in GO TO HELL BASTARDS, though the movie doesn't totally live up to the potential of that title. I liked this movie, but I love BRANDED TO KILL.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Nick Redfern Versus the Chupacabra
My man Nick Redfern -- author of THREE MEN SEEKING MONSTERS, and one of the titular three men -- got interviewed about the mysterious goat sucker.
Check it out here.
Check it out here.
Ants Love Chicken!
Would you like to know how I discovered this fun factoid?
I was on my way back from the gym. I'd put in a lot of cardio, I was feeling good, but I was also hungry. I stopped at a light, looked to my left, and noticed an El Pollo Loco. Hmmmm...
I scored an eight piece, took it home, stuck it in the fridge and wrote for a while. Two hours later I was running out of steam, and REALLY hungry. I closed up shop, threw in a DVD and ate the hell out of that chicken. Feeling lazy, I left the bones in the box on my kitchen counter. I fell asleep while watching the movie.
I woke up the next morning and found hundreds of tiny, black ants attacking the chicken bones. They'd formed a bucket brigade leading from the chicken, down the side of the counter, all the way along the edge off the wall to my bathroom, where the streamed in and out of a nail-sized hole in the bathroom door frame - the hidden gate to the ant kingdom.
Ants don't really bother me, so I didn't freak out. The box of chicken was still in the Pollo Loco plastic bag. I picked it up by the handles and walked it out to the Dumpster. Chicken all gone. Sure, there were several hundred ants who'd been separated from their brethren, but war is hell. Maybe they can make their way back home a la The Incredible Journey.
Now... most people would sweep away the line of ants or spray them with poison or something. Purely out of curiosity, I decided to leave them alone. I wanted to find out how long it would take for the message to make its way back to Ant Central Command that the chicken had vanished.
The answer: a full day. Ants aren't quite as smart as nature shows make them out to be.
Man... it's always something in my pad. First it was black widows, then it was spindlies, then it was a mice, and now it's ants. I can't wait until I'm able to live in an apartment that doesn't have its own ecosystem. I suppose in one sense it's a reminder that, despite my urban environment, I'm still a part of nature, the circle of life, hakuna matata, all of that. On the other hand, I have no illusions about what would have happened if I'd left the chicken on the counter instead of in the fridge while I wrote. At least the spindlies never tried to eat my dinner.
I was on my way back from the gym. I'd put in a lot of cardio, I was feeling good, but I was also hungry. I stopped at a light, looked to my left, and noticed an El Pollo Loco. Hmmmm...
I scored an eight piece, took it home, stuck it in the fridge and wrote for a while. Two hours later I was running out of steam, and REALLY hungry. I closed up shop, threw in a DVD and ate the hell out of that chicken. Feeling lazy, I left the bones in the box on my kitchen counter. I fell asleep while watching the movie.
I woke up the next morning and found hundreds of tiny, black ants attacking the chicken bones. They'd formed a bucket brigade leading from the chicken, down the side of the counter, all the way along the edge off the wall to my bathroom, where the streamed in and out of a nail-sized hole in the bathroom door frame - the hidden gate to the ant kingdom.
Ants don't really bother me, so I didn't freak out. The box of chicken was still in the Pollo Loco plastic bag. I picked it up by the handles and walked it out to the Dumpster. Chicken all gone. Sure, there were several hundred ants who'd been separated from their brethren, but war is hell. Maybe they can make their way back home a la The Incredible Journey.
Now... most people would sweep away the line of ants or spray them with poison or something. Purely out of curiosity, I decided to leave them alone. I wanted to find out how long it would take for the message to make its way back to Ant Central Command that the chicken had vanished.
The answer: a full day. Ants aren't quite as smart as nature shows make them out to be.
Man... it's always something in my pad. First it was black widows, then it was spindlies, then it was a mice, and now it's ants. I can't wait until I'm able to live in an apartment that doesn't have its own ecosystem. I suppose in one sense it's a reminder that, despite my urban environment, I'm still a part of nature, the circle of life, hakuna matata, all of that. On the other hand, I have no illusions about what would have happened if I'd left the chicken on the counter instead of in the fridge while I wrote. At least the spindlies never tried to eat my dinner.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
At Long Last, I Have Typed "The End" on EXTRADITION
From treatment to execution, I've been working on this script for the better part of the year. Last night, I typed "the end" on the first draft.
But by no means is it done. The script is a big, sprawling mess. In many ways, I wrote this script very out of character... I ordinarily write quickly, and bang out short, punchy drafts. On this one, however, I got indulgent, letting the scenes play, letting the characters talk. I walked in intending to write something like THE TRANSPORTER or TAKEN, and along the way it morphed into THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE UGLY. I was definitely channeling Eastwood for the lead (if Clint Eastwood knew krav maga, that is), and I wanted each scene to be its own thing.
What I love about GB&U - what I love about a lot of Italian cinema, actually - is that each scene could easily play as its own little mini-movie. Look at Tuco shopping for a gun. Or Tuco's scene with his brother, Pablo (my second favorite of the whole movie). Or Blondie in the hotel that gets bombarded. Or Angel Eyes showing up at that dude's farm. Or the entire graveyard sequence. They're all classic moments that have more character and drama in one scene than more entire movies I see. I'm not claiming EXTRADITION is that good, I'm just sayin' it's an influence.
I'm embarrassed to put the actual page count out there... suffice to say, it's a goddamn phone book of a script. Luckily, I edit very quickly -- it's a skill developed from the day job. I'm hoping to hand it in within the next week or so.
After that, it's wrapping up the edit on FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER, diving into a page-one rewrite of DESERT RUN and, when that's done, the second draft of EXTRADITION. And when I turn in that draft...? I have a couple of ideas for specs, but I've been thinking about another novel for a while. I feel like it's almost time to finally write AUTOMATIC.
But by no means is it done. The script is a big, sprawling mess. In many ways, I wrote this script very out of character... I ordinarily write quickly, and bang out short, punchy drafts. On this one, however, I got indulgent, letting the scenes play, letting the characters talk. I walked in intending to write something like THE TRANSPORTER or TAKEN, and along the way it morphed into THE GOOD, THE BAD & THE UGLY. I was definitely channeling Eastwood for the lead (if Clint Eastwood knew krav maga, that is), and I wanted each scene to be its own thing.
What I love about GB&U - what I love about a lot of Italian cinema, actually - is that each scene could easily play as its own little mini-movie. Look at Tuco shopping for a gun. Or Tuco's scene with his brother, Pablo (my second favorite of the whole movie). Or Blondie in the hotel that gets bombarded. Or Angel Eyes showing up at that dude's farm. Or the entire graveyard sequence. They're all classic moments that have more character and drama in one scene than more entire movies I see. I'm not claiming EXTRADITION is that good, I'm just sayin' it's an influence.
I'm embarrassed to put the actual page count out there... suffice to say, it's a goddamn phone book of a script. Luckily, I edit very quickly -- it's a skill developed from the day job. I'm hoping to hand it in within the next week or so.
After that, it's wrapping up the edit on FRANKENSTEIN'S MONSTER, diving into a page-one rewrite of DESERT RUN and, when that's done, the second draft of EXTRADITION. And when I turn in that draft...? I have a couple of ideas for specs, but I've been thinking about another novel for a while. I feel like it's almost time to finally write AUTOMATIC.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
A Healthy Lifestyle = Agony
I went to Arizona and spent the entire week eating like a hobbit. When I came back, I bounced down the stairs to the tarmac. Airport security had to roll me over to my bike and heave me up. The motorcycle sagged in the middle as I drove home.
Determined to reverse the damage I'd done to myself, I hit the gym with a vengeance on Monday, including a full upper-body circuit. The next day, I wanted to die. But I went back anyway, and concentrated on lower body and cardio.
Later in the week it was time to go back to upper body, but I was still in pain. I dropped a couple of Tylenol and got to it. I was fine until I got to the bench press. I didn't put much weight on at all, but it didn't matter... I brought the bar down, bounced it off my chest, and my right shoulder said, "Nope."
My brain replied, "What do you mean, 'Nope?'" To which my shoulder said, "Nope means I'm done. It's not going up. Sorry, you're going to have to do it without me. I'm sitting this one out."
I managed to heave it up to the lower hooks. But I was done. I kept it to cardio for a couple of days.
On Monday, I was back. Again, full upper body circuit, this time feeling fine. Lower body and cardio last night, which means it'll be upper body tonight. After last week's experience, I woke up this morning gauging how everything felt. I'm a little stiff, but nothing some stretching and push-ups didn't solve. The body is sore, but fine.
And I've been dropping the simple carbs, eating fruits 'n' veggies, lotsa chicken and fish. It wouldn't make much sense to beat the shit out of myself at the gym if I'm just gonna go home and eat a cheesecake and pizza, y'know?
I smoked two packs a day for thirteen years. Easily the stupidest thing I've ever done. I quit several years ago, but I still get these weird coughing jags every once in a while. Plus, I also had a couple of bleak years during which I subsisted on ramen noodles and fast food dollar menus, none of which did me any good.
I want to repair the damage, and I see the time spent and the pain as my due penance. (Yeah, I was raised Catholic). I'm just glad I have the opportunity to live better. But man... in the meanwhile, it ain't easy.
Determined to reverse the damage I'd done to myself, I hit the gym with a vengeance on Monday, including a full upper-body circuit. The next day, I wanted to die. But I went back anyway, and concentrated on lower body and cardio.
Later in the week it was time to go back to upper body, but I was still in pain. I dropped a couple of Tylenol and got to it. I was fine until I got to the bench press. I didn't put much weight on at all, but it didn't matter... I brought the bar down, bounced it off my chest, and my right shoulder said, "Nope."
My brain replied, "What do you mean, 'Nope?'" To which my shoulder said, "Nope means I'm done. It's not going up. Sorry, you're going to have to do it without me. I'm sitting this one out."
I managed to heave it up to the lower hooks. But I was done. I kept it to cardio for a couple of days.
On Monday, I was back. Again, full upper body circuit, this time feeling fine. Lower body and cardio last night, which means it'll be upper body tonight. After last week's experience, I woke up this morning gauging how everything felt. I'm a little stiff, but nothing some stretching and push-ups didn't solve. The body is sore, but fine.
And I've been dropping the simple carbs, eating fruits 'n' veggies, lotsa chicken and fish. It wouldn't make much sense to beat the shit out of myself at the gym if I'm just gonna go home and eat a cheesecake and pizza, y'know?
I smoked two packs a day for thirteen years. Easily the stupidest thing I've ever done. I quit several years ago, but I still get these weird coughing jags every once in a while. Plus, I also had a couple of bleak years during which I subsisted on ramen noodles and fast food dollar menus, none of which did me any good.
I want to repair the damage, and I see the time spent and the pain as my due penance. (Yeah, I was raised Catholic). I'm just glad I have the opportunity to live better. But man... in the meanwhile, it ain't easy.
Monday, July 20, 2009
I'm Doomed, but in a Good Way
Last week I was in a somewhat weird and tense mood. I just felt a bit off, and I didn't know why, which just made me even more off-kilter.
But then I went to the gym on Saturday and beat the shit out of myself for hours, and I felt a million times better.
So I realized that I hadn't been to the gym much for the past couple of weeks. I've been writing like a motherfucker, doing some major catch-up, and we also had some clients in town. For a while, I was getting to the gym almost daily. Suddenly, I was squeezing it in one or twice a week.
Then I hit the gym for another epic workout yesterday, and came out of that feeling like a million bucks. Which brought me to the conclusion that the gym was the x-factor... If I go, I feel good. If I don't go, I feel bad.
Shit.
I wanted to engage in a healthier life-style, and now I'm just a monkey punching a button. Which I guess means I'm doomed, but in a good way... There are worse things for me upon which I can depend for elevated brain chemistry, like booze or heroin or something.
But still...
In BURN AFTER READING, George Clooney's character starts losing his shit because he's been so busy he hasn't had a chance to get in a run. Now I understand why.
But then I went to the gym on Saturday and beat the shit out of myself for hours, and I felt a million times better.
So I realized that I hadn't been to the gym much for the past couple of weeks. I've been writing like a motherfucker, doing some major catch-up, and we also had some clients in town. For a while, I was getting to the gym almost daily. Suddenly, I was squeezing it in one or twice a week.
Then I hit the gym for another epic workout yesterday, and came out of that feeling like a million bucks. Which brought me to the conclusion that the gym was the x-factor... If I go, I feel good. If I don't go, I feel bad.
Shit.
I wanted to engage in a healthier life-style, and now I'm just a monkey punching a button. Which I guess means I'm doomed, but in a good way... There are worse things for me upon which I can depend for elevated brain chemistry, like booze or heroin or something.
But still...
In BURN AFTER READING, George Clooney's character starts losing his shit because he's been so busy he hasn't had a chance to get in a run. Now I understand why.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Prototype, and On Heroism in Video Games
I picked up PROTOTYPE the other day, and I love it. This game is pure joy. Your character - Alex J. Mercer - is so incredibly powerful, and the stakes of the story are so high, that you often find yourself in scenes of complete, unbridled, apocalyptic chaos. As Penny Arcade pointed out, it's a game in which your guy can jump up and kick helicopters out of the air... what more do you need?
But my appreciation for it goes beyond the destruction. The gameplay is phenomenal. This is primarily because it's an almost exact lift of one of my favorite PS2 games, SPIDER-MAN 2.
There are several games on the PS2 that I just ate alive: GUN, MERCENARIES, MARVEL ULTIMATE ALLIANCE... and SPIDEY-2. This isn't just because I love the movie; it's not like I've got video game adaptations of every movie I've ever liked sitting around the lair. In fact, most of them are known to suck. Go to GameSpot, and the bargain bin titles read like the summer release dates from two or three years ago. Nah, SPIDER-MAN 2 just rocked my house. I thought it was nothing but a very well-made, fun-as-hell game.
And here we have PROTOTYPE, which has taken every aspect of gameplay from SPIDER-MAN 2 and built from there. The comparisons are many... The game's a sandbox set on Manhattan. There's an A-story, but you can also unlock side missions that are either fighting or racing oriented. Anytime you want, you can drop down to street level and deal with the havok. (In SM2, it was stopping random crimes; here it's either general warfare or grabbing Web of Intrigue people). As you play, you collect points which you can spend to either unlock new fighting/movement moves, or improve core abilities. Your character has a method of "flight" which requires using the buildings around you... in SP2 it was Spidey's web-swinging, here it's Alex's gliding.
They're so similar, I was able to dust off my old SP2 skills and immediately get into PROTOTYPE, even on a micro level... getting around Central Park, dealing with overhangs, etc. PROTOTYPE improves a couple of things, too. For instance, Alex has parkour-like abilities, so he never gets hung up on anything while moving around. In SP2, running down the street was a hassle, because Spidey would get blocked by fences, cars and lamp posts unless you specifically dealt with them, i.e. jumping over them or whatever. Alex just automatically handles stuff like that. And Alex doesn't die when you fall. One of my favorite parts of SP2 was diving off really tall buildings, and web-swinging away at the last second before I hit the ground. It was always a pain when Spidey died from falling, and it felt incongruous to the character. Alex not only doesn't die, he lands with a massive BOOM which cracks the pavement and sends everything around him flying. Awesome.
Plus, PROTOTYPE has a disguise element. You can absorb a character, and change yourself to pose as them. It reminds me of DESTROY ALL HUMANS. It's funny; stealth-driven games kinda bore me, but I like games that use disguises. Go figure.
And of course the graphics are way beyond.
But the primary difference between the two games is in tone. SM2 the game is similar to SM2 the movie... It's high key, sunny heroism which is sometimes dark, but more often just fun and funny. PROTOTYPE, on the other hand, is edgy, dark anti-heroism. If it weren't for the presence of two female supporting protagonists whom you sometimes protect - his sister and ex-girlfriend - Alex would be exactly the monster the villains accuse him of being.
It's a game in which, to complete missions, you have to fight and kill New York police officers and U.S. Marines. In order to solve the mystery of Alex's identity, you have to "consume" NPCs and absorb their memories. This usually entails dropping onto a street and murdering them in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses, who scream in terror and run away. Alex can regenerate, but it's very slow... The best, fastest and frequently necessary way to heal yourself is to consume human beings. It doesn't matter who, just anybody who happens to be standing close by. When you drive a vehicle down the street and run people over, you score points. Shit, even MERCENARIES 2 and the GTAs penalize you for that kinda thing. (In M2 you lose cash, in GTA the cops come after you).
There are moments in this game that rub me the wrong way.
Now... I'm the last guy in the world to get on a pulpit and rant about how video games are ruining the youth, etc. PROTOTYPE is rated M, and is clearly meant for adults. And I'm definitely not squeamish about violence in games.
But I DO like playing a hero. I've played numerous games in which you are given the choice of taking the high or low road without penalty to your character:MASS EFFECT , FALLOUT 3 , OBLIVION IV, BALDUR'S GATE, NEVERWINTER NIGHTS, etc. If these games had come out when I was a teenager, I guarantee I would have played them as the scourge of the earth. These days, however, I consistently play a good guy.
The only other time I've felt the same way I've felt while playing PROTOTYPE was while playing MERCENARIES 2, another game I thoroughly love. In fact, in that game you're given a choice of three characters, and I always play the nihilistically destructive Matthias Nilsson (with excellent voice work by Peter Stormare). Again, M2 penalizes you for harming civilians... though you're free to steal their cars and blow up their houses, which never bothered me.
No - I'm talking about a section of the game in which you're asked to fight U.S. soldiers. It's spun very cynically, as the U.S. is only in the country to protect the oil, and they're allied with the Blackwater-style mercs who give you a hard time early in the game. And the big boss fight guys are evil CIA types. Plus, the overall tone of the game is dark comedy. It's not meant to be taken seriously.
All of that said, I still wasn't sure how I felt about that part of the game, and I had a hard time enjoying those missions.
In PROTOTYPE, there's no humor. It's a dark, serious game. Alex is an angst-ridden anti-hero, dealing with powers he didn't ask for, fighting an enemy who wants him dead for reasons he doesn't understand.
The villains make a point of calling him "it." As in: Alex is no longer a human being, he's a (sometimes) human-shaped vessel for a mutating biological warfare strain. The thing is, they're right, and Alex's actions reflect that.
One time, when I was a little kid, I was playing with some army guys, fighting out a war on my bedroom floor. My dad came home from work and, after watching me for a couple of minutes, said, "You know, those little guys are human beings." My response was something along the lines of nah, they're just pieces of plastic and this is just a game. But now I kinda see what he was talking about.
It's not like anyone who's ever played chess gets upset when they lose pieces. "My knight was a human being with a family!" And this is the same basic analogy, I suppose. Do my guts twist a little bit only because the "pieces" in video games actually look human (despite the uncanny valley) and represent specific people? (That is, they're not generic "pawns," they're members of the United States Marine Corps.) Probably.
PROTOTYPE takes pains to show the evilness of the masterminds behind the military response. They're a shadowy government bio-warfare group who, back in the '60s, killed an entire town of U.S. military personnel and their families in order to test an earlier version of the strain which now infects Alex. (Spoiler). When their strike teams appear, I take immense glee in fucking them up. The player is told it's okay to murder these people, and I'm personally fine with it as I play said game.
But it makes me think of propaganda. As a species, we're by-and-large fine with cruelty and violence so long as we feel it's justified. "They're different from us, they're evil, they must be killed, and in the worst way possible." I don't think this is even an indication of the inherent darkness in the soul of humanity or whatever... I believe it's an outgrowth of our survival instincts, the need to congregate and protect each other in a world where we're near the bottom of the food chain.
This is all well and good when I'm playing video games in which the enemies are non-human representations of evil like zombies, robots, aliens, demons, etc. This even applies to humans who are generally considered to be evil: criminals, Nazis, mercenaries, what have you. But twice now in games I've been asked to shift that "okay to kill" spotlight to fictitious representations of the U.S. military, and it's a little strange to me.
If there were a video game in which you were supposed to run around and kill, say, teachers or firefighters, everyone would lose their minds. But cops and soldiers are okay because... why? They have weapons and can presumably defend themselves from your super-powered character who can kick helicopters out of the sky?
I realize this is rambling and contradictory, and I'm not even quite sure what I'm saying, beyond the fact that I experienced something while playing a video game that was beyond the standard it's-fun-to-blow-stuff-up response.
But my appreciation for it goes beyond the destruction. The gameplay is phenomenal. This is primarily because it's an almost exact lift of one of my favorite PS2 games, SPIDER-MAN 2.
There are several games on the PS2 that I just ate alive: GUN, MERCENARIES, MARVEL ULTIMATE ALLIANCE... and SPIDEY-2. This isn't just because I love the movie; it's not like I've got video game adaptations of every movie I've ever liked sitting around the lair. In fact, most of them are known to suck. Go to GameSpot, and the bargain bin titles read like the summer release dates from two or three years ago. Nah, SPIDER-MAN 2 just rocked my house. I thought it was nothing but a very well-made, fun-as-hell game.
And here we have PROTOTYPE, which has taken every aspect of gameplay from SPIDER-MAN 2 and built from there. The comparisons are many... The game's a sandbox set on Manhattan. There's an A-story, but you can also unlock side missions that are either fighting or racing oriented. Anytime you want, you can drop down to street level and deal with the havok. (In SM2, it was stopping random crimes; here it's either general warfare or grabbing Web of Intrigue people). As you play, you collect points which you can spend to either unlock new fighting/movement moves, or improve core abilities. Your character has a method of "flight" which requires using the buildings around you... in SP2 it was Spidey's web-swinging, here it's Alex's gliding.
They're so similar, I was able to dust off my old SP2 skills and immediately get into PROTOTYPE, even on a micro level... getting around Central Park, dealing with overhangs, etc. PROTOTYPE improves a couple of things, too. For instance, Alex has parkour-like abilities, so he never gets hung up on anything while moving around. In SP2, running down the street was a hassle, because Spidey would get blocked by fences, cars and lamp posts unless you specifically dealt with them, i.e. jumping over them or whatever. Alex just automatically handles stuff like that. And Alex doesn't die when you fall. One of my favorite parts of SP2 was diving off really tall buildings, and web-swinging away at the last second before I hit the ground. It was always a pain when Spidey died from falling, and it felt incongruous to the character. Alex not only doesn't die, he lands with a massive BOOM which cracks the pavement and sends everything around him flying. Awesome.
Plus, PROTOTYPE has a disguise element. You can absorb a character, and change yourself to pose as them. It reminds me of DESTROY ALL HUMANS. It's funny; stealth-driven games kinda bore me, but I like games that use disguises. Go figure.
And of course the graphics are way beyond.
But the primary difference between the two games is in tone. SM2 the game is similar to SM2 the movie... It's high key, sunny heroism which is sometimes dark, but more often just fun and funny. PROTOTYPE, on the other hand, is edgy, dark anti-heroism. If it weren't for the presence of two female supporting protagonists whom you sometimes protect - his sister and ex-girlfriend - Alex would be exactly the monster the villains accuse him of being.
It's a game in which, to complete missions, you have to fight and kill New York police officers and U.S. Marines. In order to solve the mystery of Alex's identity, you have to "consume" NPCs and absorb their memories. This usually entails dropping onto a street and murdering them in broad daylight in front of dozens of witnesses, who scream in terror and run away. Alex can regenerate, but it's very slow... The best, fastest and frequently necessary way to heal yourself is to consume human beings. It doesn't matter who, just anybody who happens to be standing close by. When you drive a vehicle down the street and run people over, you score points. Shit, even MERCENARIES 2 and the GTAs penalize you for that kinda thing. (In M2 you lose cash, in GTA the cops come after you).
There are moments in this game that rub me the wrong way.
Now... I'm the last guy in the world to get on a pulpit and rant about how video games are ruining the youth, etc. PROTOTYPE is rated M, and is clearly meant for adults. And I'm definitely not squeamish about violence in games.
But I DO like playing a hero. I've played numerous games in which you are given the choice of taking the high or low road without penalty to your character:
The only other time I've felt the same way I've felt while playing PROTOTYPE was while playing MERCENARIES 2, another game I thoroughly love. In fact, in that game you're given a choice of three characters, and I always play the nihilistically destructive Matthias Nilsson (with excellent voice work by Peter Stormare). Again, M2 penalizes you for harming civilians... though you're free to steal their cars and blow up their houses, which never bothered me.
No - I'm talking about a section of the game in which you're asked to fight U.S. soldiers. It's spun very cynically, as the U.S. is only in the country to protect the oil, and they're allied with the Blackwater-style mercs who give you a hard time early in the game. And the big boss fight guys are evil CIA types. Plus, the overall tone of the game is dark comedy. It's not meant to be taken seriously.
All of that said, I still wasn't sure how I felt about that part of the game, and I had a hard time enjoying those missions.
In PROTOTYPE, there's no humor. It's a dark, serious game. Alex is an angst-ridden anti-hero, dealing with powers he didn't ask for, fighting an enemy who wants him dead for reasons he doesn't understand.
The villains make a point of calling him "it." As in: Alex is no longer a human being, he's a (sometimes) human-shaped vessel for a mutating biological warfare strain. The thing is, they're right, and Alex's actions reflect that.
One time, when I was a little kid, I was playing with some army guys, fighting out a war on my bedroom floor. My dad came home from work and, after watching me for a couple of minutes, said, "You know, those little guys are human beings." My response was something along the lines of nah, they're just pieces of plastic and this is just a game. But now I kinda see what he was talking about.
It's not like anyone who's ever played chess gets upset when they lose pieces. "My knight was a human being with a family!" And this is the same basic analogy, I suppose. Do my guts twist a little bit only because the "pieces" in video games actually look human (despite the uncanny valley) and represent specific people? (That is, they're not generic "pawns," they're members of the United States Marine Corps.) Probably.
PROTOTYPE takes pains to show the evilness of the masterminds behind the military response. They're a shadowy government bio-warfare group who, back in the '60s, killed an entire town of U.S. military personnel and their families in order to test an earlier version of the strain which now infects Alex. (Spoiler). When their strike teams appear, I take immense glee in fucking them up. The player is told it's okay to murder these people, and I'm personally fine with it as I play said game.
But it makes me think of propaganda. As a species, we're by-and-large fine with cruelty and violence so long as we feel it's justified. "They're different from us, they're evil, they must be killed, and in the worst way possible." I don't think this is even an indication of the inherent darkness in the soul of humanity or whatever... I believe it's an outgrowth of our survival instincts, the need to congregate and protect each other in a world where we're near the bottom of the food chain.
This is all well and good when I'm playing video games in which the enemies are non-human representations of evil like zombies, robots, aliens, demons, etc. This even applies to humans who are generally considered to be evil: criminals, Nazis, mercenaries, what have you. But twice now in games I've been asked to shift that "okay to kill" spotlight to fictitious representations of the U.S. military, and it's a little strange to me.
If there were a video game in which you were supposed to run around and kill, say, teachers or firefighters, everyone would lose their minds. But cops and soldiers are okay because... why? They have weapons and can presumably defend themselves from your super-powered character who can kick helicopters out of the sky?
I realize this is rambling and contradictory, and I'm not even quite sure what I'm saying, beyond the fact that I experienced something while playing a video game that was beyond the standard it's-fun-to-blow-stuff-up response.
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