Easy Fiend

Cloudy Zombie Meatballs

2010-02-03T19:29:00.000-08:00

I just finished watching Zombieland. It was a weird experience. I, and everyone who knew me five years ago, knows that this is a movie made for that five-year-ago guy. Violent, darkly funny, packed with pop-culture references. It's a good movie; I recognize that. Very clever, especially the Bill Murray bit.

But it didn't do much for me.

Conversely, my daughter and I watched Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs last Friday. She's just getting to the age where she "gets" movies. She gets jokes that are set up twenty minutes earlier. If she asks a question, it's about nuances in plot, not "Why is that pancake so big?" We laughed in most of the same places. When it was over, we looked at each other and smiled. As usual, I almost started crying because I knew that look in her eye. It was the look I get in my eye when I see a movie that totally blisses me out. After we'd spent several minutes going over the high points of the movie, she asked if we owned the DVD. I explained that we had rented it through Netflix.

After she went to sleep, I bought it on Amazon.

So here's the guy whose knowledge of zombie flicks was once second only to Max Brooks. Here's the guy with a vampire western in development. And here's the guy who prefers a PG animated movie to a hard-R horror film any day.

So. Very. Weird.

My article in the Daily Breeze

2010-01-09T11:17:00.000-08:00

I have a couple friends at the local paper here, The Daily Breeze. One of them, Toni, asked me to write something for them. Here it is:

Sometimes my 5-year-old just isn't all that jazzed about talking with her old man on the phone. It's a real sore spot for me.
When my wife and I divorced, the potential impact on my relationship with my daughter terrified me. Even when we were a complete family, she'd always been mommy's girl, so when I left our family home last January, I took with me my clothes, my Mac, my Clint Eastwood DVDs and an irrational fear I'd soon become nothing but a footnote in this little girl's life.
(Click through to read the rest.)

My interview with Saint Nick

2009-12-24T15:20:00.000-08:00

Here's an interview I did recently with the man in the red suit for the WGA. He was a pain to track down. His manager is a real piece of work.

I hope you're having a great Christmas or whatever else you celebrate!

Rex Sike's Movie Beat Interview

2009-12-17T16:53:00.001-08:00

It's another one of those weird situations where someone else interviews me instead of the other way around. Rex was really great. I actually learned a few things about myself during our time together.

And, yes, you can make fun of me for my "creative baby."

Let me know what you think.

The Verisimilitude of a Vince Vaughn Vehicle

2009-11-16T21:57:00.000-08:00

As I write this, the end credits to Fred Claus are rolling across the television behind me. There could be no more of a typical Hollywood movie. It's the heartwarming tale of Santa's misunderstood older brother Fred, played by Vince Vaughn, who gets one, last chance to prove that he's as good a man as his famous brother.

So, there ya go.

There is a me who mocks movies like this, who laughs with his writing buddies over the by-the-numbers structure and the "uplifting" Israel Kamakawiwo'ole version of "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" at the "heartfelt" conclusion." I was not that me tonight.

Like all Hollywood movies, Fred Claus can be boiled down to a simple theme. It's about a guy who's been smacked down by life. He feel betrayed by the people he thought loved him. But in the end, he realizes that it's not the people around you who define you. Rather, it's your actions that do that defining.

It sounds sappy just writing it, but in truth, it's a fairly common theme. You'll find it in all kinds of arthouse and foreign films, the only difference being that in those movies, Fred Claus might need to be gunned down to learn that truth. Or maybe, in the final reel, he'll learn that's not the case and that he's actually just an awful person. Or, more often than not, he'll realize that life is a hideous cycle of pain with a complete lack of justice and therefore his actions are meaningless.

I didn't need that kind of ending tonight because, as I come up on the one year anniversary of being escorted out my my previous life, things are a little shaky. I question how the story will end every day. I did, however, need to be reminded of the importance of inner strength and the fact that, in spite of every unthinking punch or petty swipe that comes your way, you gotta keep standing.

So I surrendered to Fred Claus; I'm sure that very few people have emoted to a Vince Vaughn vehicle the way I just did. I sobbed, which is nothing new for me, but we're talking five hankies plus here. Then I laughed so loud I almost woke my daughter in the next room. Then I sobbed some more. And I did this knowing that the writers (Jessie Nelson and Dan Fogelman - that's right I'm giving props to the scribes, not the helmer) would not pull the rug out from under me, that everything was going to be okay when the credits rolled. To gain the wisdom, I needed that safety.

And when the movie was over, I felt better.

As much as I tear down some of these films, I sometimes thing people who continually mock Hollywood are more shallow than the films they trash. I'm dead certain I'm not the only person on earth who saw Fred Claus at just the right time and for whom an hour and fifty-five minutes of Vince Vaughn riffs proved just the right tonic for a broken... well, for whatever ailed them.

Sure, movies should make you think, but sometimes, if they help you heal, that's even better.

Enlightenment, Cronenberg style

2009-11-06T21:17:00.000-08:00

I mentioned a while back that Bruce Joel Rubin invited me to meditate with him. I took him up on his offer several weeks ago but it's taken this long for me to process it.

Because I was new to the practice, I showed up a early so Bruce could explain how it worked. He was twice as cool in person as he was on the phone. We chatted as he ate peanut butter on toast. I guess I wanted to impress him, so I mentioned a book I'm reading, The Art of Power by Thich Nhat Hanh, which discusses the concept of mindfulness - the idea that a person should do one thing at a time and give it their full attention, get full enjoyment out of it, almost as a form of constant meditation. Then I suggested that maybe he'd like to eat his breakfast in peace. "Bullshit," he snorted. "I'm enjoying my toast and I'm enjoying talking to you at the same time. That's all that matters."

I liked him all the more.

After my briefing, we went to his mediation room. Here, I sat with about twenty other people, all facing a small platform. Bruce, who learned this particular practice from a well-known guru named Rudy, sat on the platform. For the next hour, we sat and stared at him as he took turns staring back at us. He mentioned a special breathing technique beforehand, then suggested I not worry about it. Just sit there and let my brain do what it wants to do.

I don't know if you've ever stared at someone (you weren't madly in love with) for an hour without talking or being talked at, but it's incredibly confronting. There's no danger of your mind wandering anywhere because it's too busy coping with the increasing metaphysical breakdown of the face before it. It's kind of like when you say the word "fish" over and over fifty times, it starts to lose it's meaning and become abstract. Try it. Fish. Fish. Fish.

So, about forty-five minutes into the practice (I'm guessing), things were getting plenty abstract indeed. Then Bruce turned his gaze to me. By now, Bruce's face was no longer Bruce's face. It was just this fleshy, psychedelic blob of energy. When our eyes met, all that energy just shot right between my eyes. I honestly thought my head was going to explode, like some transcendental version of Scanners. It was all I could do not to look away.

I know this sounds really weird -- that's probably because it was. I've been searching for transcendence all my life. I've even almost found it a few times. Once with a Buddhist monk in a tiny village in Nepal. Once seeing the sun shine through the stained glass windows at Sacre Coeur in Paris. And one mood-enhanced day on a beach in Australia with Sandie. But nothing like this. This had serous follow-through potential. If I could keep the practice up, this is where I'd find my answers.

When it was over, Bruce hugged me and said he hoped I came back. I thanked him and said I needed to process it a little. "Don't process," he insisted. "Just be."

I don't think I'm going back. Not for now, at least. As I fly towards the one year anniversary of being told I was no longer wanted after 17 years with the same person, my clarity is intense. I've experienced pain and grief and joy and confusion and rapture in ways I never thought possible. I'm a big, tumbling ball of emotion. Sometimes, when I hear just the wrong "guess what so-and-so did this time" story, I want to scream until my lungs bleed. Other times, when the sun shines through my private Sacre Coeur just right, the air smells sweet and, for a moment or two, I actually feel unapologetic for being the nut job that I am.

Meditating with Bruce again could, I believe, wipe that messy slate clean. I could find a peaceful place. I'd be that much closer to Zen. I'd probably sleep much better. But I don't know if I want that yet. I'm too fascinated by this plane of existence to move any closer to the next. It would almost feel like selling a car before checking the trunk to make sure you're not leaving anything personal behind.

I am, the best that I know how, just being. So, in a way, I'm doing exactly what Bruce told me to do, just without the staring.

Hand in the Fish Tank

2009-10-12T19:30:00.000-07:00

I loved the television show The Man from Atlantis when I was a kid, but I don't remember much about it. All I recall is that Patrick Duffy played the eponymous man, that he had webbed fingers, and that he needed to get in the ocean every so often to survive. Also, in one episode, he was jonesin' for his saltwater fix, so he stuck his hand in a fish tank.

There was about a ten-year gap between the time I saw that episode and the first time I touched the ocean, but it's always struck me as applicable my own life. The night we arrived in California, my dad took us down to Laguna Beach and I ran into the surf with all my clothes on. It just made sense. Since then, whenever I'm down, saltwater therapy almost always revives me. I'm The Man from Atlantis with my hand in the fish tank.

Last Thursday night, I felt down. I don't know why. It'd been a good day. I'd done a ton of work and, hopefully, put the finishing touches on a new spec script. I'd just watched a great movie called Rocket Science. Yet, I just felt off. I figured it might be because I missed the kid.

I decided to go for a walk on the beach -- my saltwater fix. Once I got there, I stuck my hand in the surf. It felt good. I walked on the sand for a while. Around Avenue G, I stumbled on a couple screwing on the lifeguard tower. I've always thought that would be a fun thing to do, titillating maybe. It was anything but. The woman, whose loud moans alerted me of their fornication, was hidden behind the white, bobbing ass of the guy. It was primal and slightly gross, kind of like the time Bruce the Dog found a rotting marlin carcass at Malaga Cove about 10 seconds before I did. Primal and slightly gross.

I got home 30 minutes later, still unsettled but distracted enough to sleep.

This weekend, I had the kid. It was a Golden Ticket two days, much of which was spent biking on the Strand. At dusk on Sunday we came across a bikini photo shoot -- weirdly enough, at that same lifeguard tower I witnessed the humpers. Drawn to the allure of high fashion, my daughter asked me to watch the bikes as she strolled down to the shoreline to observe. After ten minutes, I trusted the bikes to fate and trudged down after her, where I had to negotiate my five-year-old away from a group of gorgeous, oiled-up Asian women in bikinis. In any -- ANY -- other circumstance, I would have killed to be there, but my Daddy side and my get-close-to-gorgeous-oiled-up-Asian-women-in-bikinis side aren't really overlapping yet, so I just felt kind of awkward, old and overdressed.

Once the kid had gone to bed that night, I sat down on the couch and, much to my surprise, felt down again. It surprised me. Usually, weekends like this with the kid are enough to yank me out of any blue state, but not this time.

As I re-read this post, I notice a sexual undercurrent. Who am I kidding, it's a damn sexual tidal wave, so it's logical to assume that my uneasiness might have something to do with loneliness. This isn't the case. It's just melancholy. I've had it my whole life.

I know three things about it. First, sometimes it gets too big for the hand in the fishbowl to fix. Second, the more I try to fight it, the bigger it gets. Third, it was an integral part of why my marriage fell apart.

And there's a fourth thing I suspect, but don't know for sure; it's never going to go away completely, so I better make damn sure that, from now on, everyone in my inner circle -- family, friends, lovers, wife -- is willing to accept it.

And while accepting it in myself doesn't exactly fill me with joy, it's still as liberating as a million hands in the fish tank.

Gettin' My Rage On

2009-10-05T19:15:00.000-07:00

Since the separation, I've had my share of rage-filled moments, but with the exception of almost Fight Clubbing Omar one night, I'd yet to act on my anger.

Until this afternoon.

I was walking across the Vons parking lot when this big, gray van roared past me, literally inches from my face, so close I could read the anti-abortion stickers he had plastered all over his interior through the tinted window. As he passed by, I gave his back door a big ol' smack.

Yeah, I know. Stupid. It was just a knee-jerk reaction.

By the time I got to my Subaru, I had the driver, a 280-pound, 50-year-old blue collar worker, running towards me yelling, "YOU DON'T FUCKING HIT PEOPLE'S CARS! FUCKER!"

Despite this occasional car smacking habit, I'm actually really conflict averse. There have been many, many times in my life that I've backed away from fights (and I'm not just talking fist fights with strangers) and, frankly, regretted it. I don't back down because I know fights are silly. I back down because I don't like to fight. Some might even say I'm a "pussy."

I have no idea why, but this time, I wasn't scared. I was actually kind of excited, like the first time I learned J.J. Abrams was re-imagining Star Trek. I hopped out of my car and yelled back, "THEN YOU SHOULD LEARN HOW TO GIVE RIGHT OF WAY TO PEDESTRIANS."

It didn't feel right, so after a beat, I added, "YOU JERK!"

Yeah, that felt good.

He retorted, "YOU DON'T FUCKING HIT PEOPLE'S CARS! FUCKER!"

I'm new to this male aggression thing, so I was a little taken aback by the lack of variation on the theme. In the movies, those guys seem more clever. I opted to add a little flair.

"THIS IN NOT THE AUTOBAHN!" I bellowed. Now our faces were inches apart. He looked confused for a second. I don't think he knew what the Autobahn was. It occurred to me that it would be really funny if I just suddenly kissed him, but that didn't seem appropriate.

"YOU DON'T FUCKING HIT PEOPLE'S CARS! FUCKER!"

"YEAH, I HEARD YOU THE FIRST TWO TIMES!"

We went back and forth like this for a while. A crowed gathered. Then I walked over to his van and pointed out that I'd caused no damage. "SO MAYBE YOU'RE OVERREACTING!"

Again, it didn't feel right, so I added, "IDIOT!"

Apparently, the sprint across the parking lot and our heated trot back to his van was somewhat taxing, so a lack of breath forced him to shorten his standard response to "FUCK YOU!"

At this point, it became obvious that he wasn't going to hit me unless I hit him first, which I wasn't going to do because then he could sue me and I've had enough of lawyers for one year. (No offense, Tom.) And, the more I thought about it, although I was in far better shape than this guy, he'd still probably wipe the asphalt with my face. My pretty, pretty face.

This wasn't as fun as I thought it would be. I didn't want to fist fight, but why else were we yelling at each other? It's not like either of us was going to see the light. It felt nothing like the manly, Swayzesque explosion of bravado and testosterone I was hoping for. It was just two people with nothing in common caught in a cycle of frustration and pain. Suddenly, I felt very much like I was married to this sweating, angry, old, fat man.

I needed to break the chain. I stopped yelling and said, "I'm tired of this now. I'm going to go get my daughter from school," and walked away.

"FUCK YOU!" he wheezed, "AND FUCK YOUR DAUGHTER!"

I did actually take pause here. "Why now?" I thought. Why did he have to wait until I walked away to come up with something that might actually compel me to take a swing?

But it was too late. Our relationship was over. Besides, I truly did need to pick up my daughter and a face-gravel-removal trip to the emergency room would take away from quality time with her.

"Have a nice day," I said back, "I bet you have lots of friends and a lot of people like you."

"I HOPE YOU DIE!" he screamed, "AND YOUR DAUGHTER TOO!"

He hopped in his van and slammed it in reverse. After five feet, he remembered that he had to go to the grocery store, so he pulled back into his spot. He huffed into Von's, hurt, angry and alone, ignoring the families and kids who had stopped to watch us.

I was glad I hadn't dropped any f-bombs myself.

Saltwater Wisdom

2009-09-21T22:44:00.000-07:00

Funny thing, wisdom. At 39, it seems like I have a ton of it. I know how to help my friends. I know how to help my family. I know how to help me. I know exactly what not to say to my ex-wife. Then I say it anyway because I've never had the skill to impart or utilize any of this wisdom. What seems sagely and profound on the inside comes out long-winded and preachy, so people rarely listen that what I have to say -- least of all, me.

Two Sundays ago, my daughter announced she wanted to spent the day hanging around the beach pad. I agreed, but on the condition that she first follow me to the beach so that I could go for a quick dip. To my surprise, she agreed.

To my bigger surprise, she decided she wanted to stay once we got there. The beach was overcast and almost empty, save us and a large twelve-step support meeting sitting in a circle, drinking coffee and eating cookies.

I collected tiny seashells as the kid drew in this little yellow notepad she carries around with her. She made sketches of the lone surfer in the water and periodically asked me to help her draw the waves.

At the risk of being judgmental, the surfer wasn't surfing very well. He was on a longboard and he kept paddling into the waves too late, causing his board's nose to dig into the water and flip him helpless into the mush. The word for this is "pearling."

I wanted so badly to swim out there and, with one quick bit of wisdom, completely revolutionize his surfing, but in the 23 years I've lived by the ocean, of the three continents and hundreds of individual wave riders I've known, I've never once met one who liked unsolicited advice while floating in the line up, especially from a stranger.

After a while, my daughter met a couple little boys playing in the water decided she wanted to get wet. I ran around with her as I talked to the boys' mother. She was part of the twelve step group, a very sweet person, but I could practically see the pain radiating from her. Life had beaten her down in ways I hope I never understand and she had no problem talking about it. I thank my higher power for a good day or week. This woman probably thanks her God for a good minute or hour.

Eventually, the surfer got out of the water. As he walked by, I wanted to say, "Dude, if you went out past the break a little further and started paddling into the wave a little sooner, you'd totally be able to catch these waves." But for some reason, I censored myself. I opened my mouth and out came, "Howza surf?" followed by a macho nod. He returned the nod, reached into his pack, pulled out his phone and asked me to take his photo with his board, so that he could post in on a dating website.

I snapped a few shots. He thanked me, headed into the twelve-step circle and helped himself to coffee and cookies, which I thought was a little presumptuous until I realized he was part of the group.

Lately, I've been surfing with such regularity that I write off a bad surf as a bad surf, forgetting what a gift that it actually is. What I had snobbishly considered a crappy demonstration of lousy wave riding was, for this guy, on this Sunday morning, his saltwater communion. It didn't require improvement.

And keeping my wisdom to myself was the wisest possible thing I could have done.

Chipmunks and Caesar Salad ala Sandie

2009-09-11T20:12:00.000-07:00

Tonight, the kid and I ate Caesar salad and watched the Alvin and the Chipmunks movie. Life's been throwing illness, obligations and custody snafus at us lately, so it was the first time in a while we've been able to just hang out. I particularly enjoyed the evening because I could tell that my daughter, too, particularly enjoyed the evening.

There was a point six months ago that my time with her terrified me. When she was around, personal development and post-marriage healing skidded to a halt as I made damn sure I was being the best possible dad at every moment which, at the time, I don't think I was succeeding at.

But we've hit a groove. It's hard to explain, but now I'm finding that personal development and healing peak when she's around. It's as if I spent years trying to be her dad only to learn that I don't need to do that. I am her dad.

As I said, we had Caesar salad for dinner. It's a meal I've avoided making all year because it's one of Sandie's signature dishes, something she's spent years perfecting. At one point several months ago, after an especially weird divorce-related, moderated meeting, she invited me over to have Caesar salad with her and my daughter in what was a genuinely kind gesture. You have no fucking idea how badly I wanted to go "home" and eat with them, but I said no, making up the excuse that it would confuse the kid. The truth is, I would have found it less painful and conflicting had she proposed a quickie in the broom closet.

Anyway, tonight I made Caesar salad. It was just okay. I burned the croutons and added too much mustard. It's a dish that requires subtlety, balance and grace, none of which I possess as a cook. I'm pretty good in the kitchen, mind you, but I'm all about flare and ginger, heartburn and capers.

I mused about this with my daughter. The conversation lead the skills people have. She inquired about my skills. I told her I was a decent writer, I could surf, paint silly pictures and fix toys. I then went on to explain that her mother could do math, listen to people's problems, sing and dance. I asked her what her skills were. She got a bit stuck so I helped her out with a giant list of things she was already good at.

There was a point when I couldn't have a conversation like this. Then there was a point when this conversation would have driven me to instant tears. Then there was a point when I would have listed Sandie's skill set somewhat differently and reserved the conversation for bars and therapy couches.

But tonight, it was a fond remembrance. I waited for remorse to wash over me as I ate my crappy salad but it never came. Those were good salad years and I'll miss them, but I don't want them back.

Nights like tonight, however, I never want to end.

(and, for the record, yes I cried during Alvin and the Chipmunks, damnit.)

Enter the Bassett

2009-09-10T21:19:00.000-07:00

My friend Peter made a weird, cult, kung-fu comedy a while ago, in much the same way that we all, at some point, make our own weird, cult kung-fu comedies.

However, Peter's was called Enter the Bassett and for a few months now, he's been breaking it into sections and posting it on Youtube. As many of you know, my taste in cinema can be pretty wacky at times, which might explain why I enjoy Bassett very much.

You'll find the whole series here. And while I'm doing a Peter Plug, I'm also a fan of his blog, The Land of No. For some reason, it makes me think of Edward Hopper paintings.

Camping in the presence of the Orange Bikini

2009-08-30T20:24:00.000-07:00

The kid and I went camping at Big Bear this weekend. It's an annual event organized by our friends Denise and Kevin. We've done it for years as a family, so it was incredibly weird doing it without Sandie.

The campsite next to ours contained a big group of perpetually drunk and half-naked college-age kids. As luck would have it, their site was right next to the water spigot. It was no coincidence, I think, that the guys in our group found as many excuses to do the dishes as possible. At one point, as I was coming out the bathroom, I discovered a blond in an orange bikini passed out on the picnic next to the spigot. I announced this and watched as the guys scrambled for soiled cups and plates. Then the blond leapt up and ran for the toilets and the hunt subsided.

As fate would have it, I was washing dishes when the blond returned for the john (I hid a stash of dirty cups for just such occasions). She was hammered, unaware that one of her boobs was hanging out, talking to her friend, saying, "Omygawd, sometimes I just like to sleep, ya know. I totally love lying on my back. Don't you?"

When I describe her, I don't mean to be condescending. Lord knows I spent many an evening in my youth passed out on picnic tables in orange bikinis, but as a newly minted single guy, I often wonder what I'm supposed to do next and the only frame of reference I have is college and, back then, Orange Bikini fell well within my acceptable target range.

I thought about this as I spent this weekend watching my daughter play with the other little kids. Occasionally, I joined in, knowing that the amount she wants me involved with these childhood games is already decreasing with every day.

I also mulled it over as, after all the kids were asleep, us old folks sat around the fire gorging ourselves on the smores and brownies we so meagerly rationed to our brood just hours before and cracking wise about current events, our misspent youth, literature and half a dozen other topics that would have bored the bottom off of Orange Bikini.

I've decided, for now, to hold off on dating, but when I'm ready, will I start where I left off and set my sights on Orange Bikinis? Is that what I want? From a raw, primal point of view, hell yes, but when I play it out, not so much. When the day comes that my dating world and my daddy world merge, I think it best that all boobs are accounted for and safely stowed until the appropriate time.

I have no idea what comes next.

My groovy interview with Bruce Joel Rubin

2009-08-18T07:32:00.000-07:00

Here's my WGA interview with Time Traveler's Wife screenwriter Bruce Joel Rubin. And here's an excerpt:

Does that meditation work into your creative process?

Yes, of course. Meditation is not unlike going to sleep. It’s like going to sleep, awake. So you pass from a conscious state into a sort of daydream-like state between deep sleep and awakened consciousness. That state is fertile with imaginative power. I can, when I consciously begin the journey deep inside, stop at that place. I often keep a pad next to my meditation altar so I can take notes. I take them very quickly and then I just go deeper and go past all that creative noise and arrive at a place that is very still and very embracing.

It sounds like the ultimate tool for writer’s block.

I think it’s the best tool for writer’s block because it gets you out of mind, as such. Mind has the capacity to run you ragged. From that perspective, mind is just this sort of noisy tool. If you can gain perspective or get a distance from it, you can use it rather than have it use you. There’s something very valuable about that.

It was a rushed conversation. The studio set it up, so we only had 20 minutes and the conversation kept veering into spirituality. I kept having to awkwardly lurch things back into screenwriting. When time was up, I expressed my frustration and Bruce, ever the Zenster, told me to email him so we could continue our meditation discussion. Since then, we've been going back and forth and I might sit with him for some meditation sessions soon.

I warned him that he was getting himself involved with a piece of work. He responded that if I weren't a piece of work, he didn't know if he'd be interested in sitting with me.

Paul's well that ends well

2009-08-05T19:37:00.000-07:00

Regular readers of Easy Fiend may know that I always had a peculiar relationship with my ex-wife's father, Paul. Basically, I spent 17 years trying to form a bond and impress him and he spent 17 years being seemingly unimpressed. Yes, we had our moments, but he's a tough nut to crack and I'm not much of a nut cracker.

Last weekend was my daughter's birthday. Sandie organized it. (We're switching off year-to-year. Next birthday party: Clown Strippers.) I was nervous to say the least. It would be the longest I'd spent around my ex since I left the house and, just to make it all the more joyous, her parents would be there. That would, of course, include Paul.

In the weeks leading up to the party, I planned what I would say to Paul. I would be clever, dismissive. My cutting, Algonquin Round Table-style witticisms would say, "I no longer need to impress you, ex-Father-in-law, and frankly, that's just fine by me."

When we arrived, Paul was sitting against the wall, looking lost. I don't know why it never occurred to me before, but Paul is probably a pretty shy guy when not in his element. Before I could prepare my first barb, I marched up to him, shook his hand warmly and told him I was happy he could make it. A few minutes later, after making the rounds, I approached him again at the snack table. Over raw broccoli and fruit kabobs, we discussed the progress of the golf team he coaches. Although, at times, it feels like he's only said three dozen words to me in the last two decades, I listened intently to those 36 words and was more than able to use them in conversation.

An hour later, he approached me with his cell phone and spent the next 30 minutes showing me photos from his recent fishing trip to Mexico. It was a pleasant, breezy chat and by far the most comfortable I've ever felt around him.

Last post, I claimed I wasn't seeing the irony in life. I guess I was mistaken. I find it ironic that I've found a solid footing with Paul only after the footing I had with his daughter has crumbed to dust and blown away.

I'll probably see him from time-to-time but I'm still going to miss that guy.

Technically Speaking: Mob Talk

2009-08-03T17:17:00.000-07:00

My Technically Speaking column this month was really fun. I spoke with undercover FBI agent Joaquin “Jack” Garcia , who transformed himself into an Italian jewel thief and spent two and half years infiltrating the Gambino crime family so deeply that La Costa Nostra actually invited him to become a “made man.”

Not surprisingly, he was pretty opinionated about how Hollywood represents the mob.

Here’s another one. The place in The Sopranos where Tony hangs out with the gangsters, Satriale’s Pork Store: Do you think anybody in law enforcement with half a brain would eat at the same place that the gangsters are at? So they could spit in my food? You think that any respectable law enforcement office is going to go to a mob joint and eat a veal parmesan? Number one, you don’t know what they’re going to do to your food and number two, why am I giving my hard-earned dollars to one of these gangsters?

In Hollywood, they make it seem like “Hey, Tony, how ya doin’?” Yeah, well, if they were drinkin’ coffee, I’m sure they’re pissing in it too. Trust me, I was with these guys. I walked the walk and talked the talk. They hate the cops. They hate the FBI.

We talked for over an hour and the conversation drifted all kinds of directions. I asked him lots of non-pertinent questions that didn't fit in the article because, well, how often do you get to talk to a guy like this?

I hope you dig it.

An ending and a beginning

2009-07-29T08:50:00.000-07:00

I like to tell anecdotes when I write on Easy Fiend -- tales that flow through a beginning, middle and end. But I haven't written much lately because I haven't been seeing the poetry that flows through life that allows me to turn it into stories; I've just been living. Not that it's a bad thing. Some parts are great, particularly the ever-deepening relationship with my daughter. Last night, we walked to the beach to watch the weird algae blooms that have turned Redondo's coast bright green and it was one of the most tranquil, happy nights of my life. But it was part of a new-found existential groove I'm in, the moral of which escapes me, so I have no wise or clever tales for you right now.

That said, today is both my daughter's birthday and the day my divorce is official. I do see the irony in that. I have a tiny, gold baptism bracelet with my name etched in it that my daughter liked to wear until she outgrew it. I plan to sell my wedding ring and use the gold to add links to the bracelet, so she can continue to wear a part of me through whatever life hands her.

Okay, so maybe I do still see a little poetry from time to time.

The Black Cloud over the Black Hills

2009-07-19T22:34:00.001-07:00

The kid and I just got back from a week in the Black Hills with my parents and my sister's family. All-and-all, it was a good time, but unfortunately, I discovered I'm not as together as I thought I was. It turns out I've got quite a robust reservoir of anger bubbling below the surface. Here at my beach shack, in control of my environment, I didn't notice it, but throw me into a two-bedroom cabin with 7 family members, 1200 miles away from the mighty Pacific, with no access to organic produce and, well, kaboom!

While the Faye herd is admittedly a handful, I was over-the-top livid, bursting into blind rages several times over the smallest of infractions, including:

My dad eating too many Fig Newtons.
My nephew throwing a half-eaten apple into the woods.
My sister daring to critique my ability to properly drain garbanzo beans.
My brother-in-law making fun of me for getting mad at his son for throwing a half-eaten apple into the woods.

And my personal favorite:

My mom accidentally melting my daughter's toothbrush over an open flame.

Anyway, I suppose it's good to know that's there so that I can work on it.

Harold Ramis interview

2009-07-01T17:21:00.000-07:00

Here's an interview I did with Harold Ramis for the WGAw. He's a personal hero of mine, so this was really exciting. He turned out to be every bit as cool as I thought he'd be. Super insightful and humble.

As a little bonus for you regular readers, here's a little except that I cut out because I didn't think it fit the rest of the interview. Enjoy.

I noticed Groundhog Day was remade in Italy. How’d it feel to be on the other side of the Euro-remake coin?

That was weird. I don’t know if they rewrote it or translated the script.

So you weren’t involved?

No, I just heard that someone had license the property. I kind of understand why it was Italy. Our comedies don’t play well, particularly in Italy. I once asked an Italian costume designer working on a movie I was acting in. She said, for one thing, the Italians don’t like subtitles, so you’re sort of at the mercy of who dubs the movie and the Italians might not like the voice doing your principals and you’re at the mercy of translation – and comedy doesn’t translate well because it’s so idiomatic, the rhythm of a joke is so based on language – and so many jokes are based on culture. So clearly, some saw enough in that movie to do it, but clearly they couldn’t have directly translated the funny bit.

Have you seen it?

No, I haven’t.

The French Toast Party

2009-06-27T19:52:00.000-07:00

Today, my daughter and I hosted a French toast party. She invited a friend from school and I invited my friend Steph.

We gorged ourselves on French toast, maple syrup and strawberries. I've taken a week off of coffee, so I had a well-earned cup of joe. We then went to the beach. We made a drip castle that Steph announced looked more like a funnel cake. My daughter and her friend simultaneously got nailed by a big wave and I had to prevent two flopping, screaming 5-year-olds from washing out to sea, which is no easy task. I expected my daughter to freak out, but instead she laughed.

We went back the beach shack. Steph chuckled as both of the little girls pulled aside the bottoms of their bathing suits and demanded that I brush the sand off their private parts. She then declined when I offered to do the same for her.

We all went out for yogurt.

Later, after our guests had left, our neighbor, Nick gave us a big bowl of vegetarian spaghetti that we shared for dinner. Then we played an improvised game with poker chips and playing cards. Out of nowhere, my daughter looked up from the game and announced, "Daddy, today with a really fun day."

She liked making the funnel cake best. My heart nearly exploded.

By no stretch of the imagination am I out of the shit storm this divorce created, but those of you who have been following the process through this blog can stop worrying. We're doing just fine.

My divorce envelope has a broken clasp

2009-06-26T20:49:00.000-07:00

My divorce is final at the end of July. I received the papers telling me this last week. Our mediator's cover letter opened with the word "Congratulations," which I felt was an odd choice, but I suppose any judgment that ends with only minor blood loss is a cause for celebration in the eyes of a divorce mediator.

I have a big, manila envelope that I shove all my divorce crap into, the idea being that once this is done, I can seal the bastard, shove it to the back of my file box and put it out of my mind, forever. Thinking that this final "Stipulated Judgment" would be the end of it, I stuffed it onto my big folder and folded the clasp down.

It broke.

For some reason, I was much more pissed off than I should be. It's not like the envelope exploded or all the mind-numbing paperwork within suddenly flew out and consumed me like Robert De Niro in Brazil. I mean, I can still just tape it shut.

I suppose I was annoyed because I realized that, just as I can no longer properly seal this divorce envelope, I'll never be able to seal the divorce envelope in my head either. I'd love to focus exclusively on the feelings of liberation and self awareness I've been experiencing in the last few weeks, but the fact is, this beautiful, flawed and failed experiment of a marriage, as well as the twisted end it came to are part of my psyche until the day I die. That envelope will never close, so what I do now is accept that and move on.

Good news is, I'm getting damn close.

So I suppose Harley or Mercedes are out.

2009-06-23T22:29:00.000-07:00

I bumped into my neighbor James today while walking Bruce the Dog along the beach. After the customary surfer small talk, we scoped the waves until James pointed out a friend surfing on an alaia, a reproduction of an ancient wooden Hawaiian surfboard. I commented that, briefly, I wanted to name my daughter Alaia, but that didn't pan out for reasons I need not mention here.

James gave me a weird look. We watched the surf for a minute. Bruce growled at a husky.

Then James looked back at me and, speaking with the utmost importance, said, "Dude, never name your daughter after something that can be ridden."

Words to live by.

We Got The Party

2009-06-15T16:47:00.000-07:00

The kid and I spent the weekend in Palm Desert with a bunch of friends. It was the first time since the split that I genuinely felt my social life and my paternal life converge. It was kind of awesome.

I picked her up early from preschool on Friday. It was about a three-hour drive, during which we either kept the Subaru thumpin' to some serious Hannah Montana or discussed our favorite moments from the show. (I'm partial to the time Jackson ran through the fake door and fell into the chocolate pudding. She liked it when Jackson's dad moved his bed into the beach when he was sleeping.)

As we drove down the 91 and rocked out to "We Got The Party," it felt like one of those movie moments, the opening to some college road movie, only, you know, with a 39-year-old guy and his 4-year-old kid.

She's reaching an age where we're becoming pals and, at times, it seems like she's starting to fill a friendship gap vacated by my now-ex-wife. I know it'll never last and I'm cool with that, but for now, like I said, it's kind of awesome.

The Wisdom of Major Athletic Apparel Companies.

2009-06-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

Here's a cool Nike ad about "reincarnating" yourself. Maybe I should take up jogging...

The Evisceration of Stretch Armstrong

2009-06-02T19:22:00.000-07:00

I just heard that Brian Glazer is producing a Stretch Armstrong movie.

Provided this isn't a hoax, I'm happy beyond belief. I got a Stretch Armstrong for Christmas as a child and made the mistake of taking him to the outdoor ice-skating rink across the street from my South Dakota home.

For those of you not familiar with Stretch, he's made of rubber and filled with jelly. For those of you not familiar with rubber, the warmer it gets, the more it stretches.

Twenty degrees in the dead of a Midwest winter is not warm, so when a couple of my friends grabbed Stretch's legs and started skating in circles, trying to use their centrifugal force to stretch him out, he split in two and, for reasons I will never, ever understand, Hasbro decided to make his jelly innards red. Needless to say, as a nine-year-old, watching my Stretch Armstrong's crimson guts ooze out across the ice had a lasting (negative) impact.

I'm hoping this movie will grant me closure.

My interview with Ivan Raimi

2009-05-30T19:49:00.001-07:00

Here's an interview I did recently with Ivan Raimi, who cowrote Drag Me to Hell with his brother Sam Raimi.

I suppose a Sam Q&A would have been more prestigious but, frankly, I'm glad I talked to Ivan. First off, every magazine and newspaper from here to Taiwan has a Sam Raimi interview, so Ivan was a scoop, in a way. It was neat to talk to an accomplished writer who isn't heard from too often. Secondly, this was one of those rare magic conversations where the interviewee and I just jelled. It was hard to keep him on topic as the discussion kept veering into our favorite movies, our kids and why it's fun to torture Bruce Campbell.

I didn't include it in the story, but at one point, I was telling him how since my daughter was born, I've lost my taste for writing horror or violence in general. Ivan, who has two kids, 11 and 13, snorted. Then he sneered, "Yeah, you get over that."

Enjoy the interview. I sure did.

Incite Insight

2009-05-28T21:27:00.000-07:00

There's a dude with salt-and-pepper dreads who works at the Trader Joe's by my house. He looks and sounds a lot like Elvis Mitchell and he's always stoked.

He first came to my attention a couple months ago when he talked a couple teenage girls -- who were clearly stoned -- into upgrading from the cheese cake they were buying to some elaborate chocolate mousse pie thing. It wasn't like he was up-selling them. It was more like he was saying, "I know where you are, ladies, and I know just what you need."

At first, his relentlessly sunny demeanor bugged me, but I've grown to enjoy it. Sometimes, I'll wait in his line, even if it's longer than the others, just to get a dose of stoke.

Yesterday, we were chatting about causing trouble, for some reason. I told him that he seemed so positive about everything that I just couldn't see him as a troublemaker. He didn't agree. He said he liked to think of himself as a provocateur.

"I like to incite insight," he beamed.

Incite insight. I like that.

The Zen of Buzzed Longboard Skateboard Slaloms

2009-05-24T19:55:00.000-07:00

This is a cheap longboard skateboard I bought at the insistence of Australian Dave when we lived in Melbourne. The groups of man-children I ran with had taken to using these boards for our weekend pub-crawls and I didn't want to be left behind, literally.

On more than one occasion, we would also skate very fast down very steep streets as the others waited at the bottom to watch for oncoming traffic. As a group, we sucked as skaters and not one of us actually knew how to stop a board. Also, there was typically beer involved with these slalom runs, so it was stupid at best.

One day, Dave and his wife Kate invited Sandie and me to Kate's rural hometown of Albury-Wodonga. I don't recall why. It was a pretty little town with a really good Army surplus store and an abundance of hills, so Dave and I brought our boards and spent the afternoon scouting.

We found a big one. It started steep, then sloped off gently and had no cross-streets. It was the perfect longboard skateboard slalom hill.

Because I'm me, I went first. It was the fastest I'd ever gone on a skateboard. I remember reaching thepoint of no return, going too fast to stop (as if I could) or jump off. I knew that if I tried to control it too much, I'd lose control. The best thing, the only thing I could do was relinquish control to physics and fate, hang on loosely and enjoy the ride.

Then came Dave's turn. He had a short skateboard that day and didn't think it would make the hill. Flush with hydrenalin, I grabbed his board and did the run again.

The board didn't like it, but by the time I figured that out, I was again past the point. The board speed wobbled violently. I hung on loosely and prayed. When I made it to the gentle sloping part, I was stoked. I hooted. Dave hooted.

Then I hit a patch of gravel. The board came to an instant halt. I kept going.

Five minutes later, once we had determined there were no broken bones, I looked at the 3-inch circle of gravel rash on my hip and muttered, "Sandie is going to be pissed." The quote would become the stuff of legend in our circle and, one day, similar comments would be handed to me as examples of why our relationship didn't work.

Last night, Screenwriter Tom invited me to his sister Lauri's house to hang out. According to Google Maps, Tom lives .9 miles away from me, which is an easy walk, but an easier skateboard.

I don't ride my board much. My pack of fellow idiots lives across a very big pond and most steep hills in the South Bay tend to end in blind intersections. But I was feeling spritely last night, so I went for it. It turns out that the route to Tom's is quite hilly. I chickened out about three times on the way over.

We ate, we drank beer, we argued which was a more perfect film, Ghostbusters or The Sting. (I won't tell you which side I was on.) It was a great evening, as it always is with Tom. At around 9:30, I collected my board and headed home.

It felt good to skate with a little buzz. The streets were empty, save PCH, which I could hear humming in the distance. There was a decent decline at the end of Helberta Avenue. I went for it. I thought I had control, but about halfway down, I realized it was another Aubrey-Wodonga situation. I was going too fast to jump off, but this time, the run ended in a t-intersection at Sapphire and I really couldn't see what was coming. At first, I panicked. My brain raced for an out. I always have to have an out, but I couldn't think of one. I also knew that the rubber in my trucks had long worn out, making my board incredibly wobbly. The more I tried to control it, the more it bucked and swerved.

So I let go.

I didn't know what was going to happen. I just felt the wind in my hair and smelled the night rushing up my nostrils. Thankfully, I safely hit an empty Sapphire, took a wide right and opted to walk the next couple blocks.

I'm not normally one to let go of things, to let life make choices for me. It feels good.

Release the pain and forgive

2009-05-15T20:29:00.000-07:00

I can't remember if I've mentioned this here, but about a month into this divorce, I did something to my back and I've been dealing with the pain for about three months. While I'm certain something is actually wrong, I'm aware that it's also psychosomatic. The more stressed I am, the more it hurts.

On a not-so-unrelated note, my ex-wife did something to piss me off tonight. Honestly, it's minor and petty and I doubt she knows she did it. My oversensitivity mixed with her obliviousness was always a sore point between us, but where we once tried to repair these situations with open, healing dialogs that would inevitably turn into ugly pissing matches, I no longer have that opportunity. There's really no point in trying to explain my feelings to her. Without that release, I have to do something I should have learned how to do long ago. I need to own my anger.

Okay, stick with me here because I'm almost at the point of this entry.

We signed our paperwork this week, which means all we need to do is wait for a judge to review everything and put his stamp on it and the divorce will be final. It's not the feeling of relief I thought it would be. Instead, I'm a little adrift. For months, my mantra has been "get through this part." Now this part is over. What the hell am I supposed to do? What's my mantra now?

I wasn't really worrying about that tonight. My back was sore and I was pissed off at my ex, so I figured I'd try to deal with some of those issues instead. Yoga seemed like a good idea, but my daughter was asleep in the next room, so I couldn't head out to a studio. I did, however, have a DVD called Pure and Simple Yoga from a company I do a lot of work for, Beachbody.

The workout began with the instructor going on about a bunch of spiritual business that I wasn't terribly open to at that particular moment. Finally, she explained that we needed to figure out our intention for doing this program. What was our goal?

As much as I hadn't thrown on this disc to achieve enlightenment, I do have a strong Midwestern work ethic, so when someone gives me an assignment, I pathologically need to do it. I scrambled for an intention. Finally, I decided on "release my shoulder pain and forgive Sandie for tonight's shenanigans."

As we progressed through the workout, the instructor -- who's name is Gillian and she's pretty hot, although I didn't want to focus on that because it was messing with my, I don't know, chi flow or whatever -- kept reminding us to "honor our intention." Because I was bent up like a pretzel, it got harder to focus on my mouthful of an intention, so I shortened it to "release the pain and forgive."

Then it hit me. "Release the pain and forgive."

I've found a new mantra.

Letter from a young poet

2009-05-13T11:20:00.000-07:00

My daughter dictated a letter to me last night. It's intended for her preschool teacher.

The school -

Dear XXXXX -

School is fun. Can you keep setting out games? And don't forget to change the job chart. And I hope you still live.

From,

XXXXXXXXX

Obviously, my unique combination of compassion and total lack of tact didn't fall far from the tree.

Call me Knee Bone

2009-05-10T15:12:00.000-07:00

I have a neighbor here at the beach shack who's a hardcore surfer. We haven't surfed together yet, but we often bump into each other getting in or out of the water.

When we finally got around to introducing ourselves, he told me his name was "James." I told him my name, Denis. But what some of you might not know is that I use the French pronunciation, which sounds like "Duh-nee" because, well, that's my name.

There was a Blondie song in the 70s called Denis that was a hit all over the world except in the states, so this is the only place in the world where it's a pain in the ass to have this name. What I usually do to help people along is say, "Da nose. (And point to my nose.) Da elbow. (And point to my elbow.) Da knee. (And point to my knee.)"

I did this with James and got the same "oh aren't you clever" look I always get. But the next time we met, he apparently decided "Duh-nee" was too much hassle and opted instead for calling me "Knee Bone." He knew how to say Denis and everything, it's just that I guess Knee Bone flows better.

To be honest, I kind of prefer it to my real name.

Wednesdays are the weirdest day

2009-05-06T21:30:00.000-07:00

After being a daddy since Friday, Wednesday mornings are when I drop my daughter off at school and her mom picks her up. Then it's their weekend together. I'm legally allowed to see the kid once over the five days until I pick her up after school on Monday, but other then that, I'm a bachelor.

Wednesdays are the weirdest day.

By Thursday night, I'll have compartmentalized my paternal instincts enough so that I can live the swingin' life I'm supposed to live, more-or-less. I'll probably get a surf or two in and I'll absolutely go drinking with the boys. I might take in a movie. Probably won't get laid but, for once in my life, that's not a primary concern. Now isn't particularly "sexy time," because I just spent the morning dealing with a four-year-old who's having a hard time wrapping her head around her new paradigm. How do you feel excited to see your mommy after what feels like an eon, yet simultaneously feel sad because you won't see your daddy for an equal amount of time?

She spent the morning intermittently furious at me then clinging to me. I spent the morning intermittently annoyed with her antics then grieving the fact that I won't get to deal with them this weekend. Ultimately, we had a smiley, kissy goodbye and I went for a surf to try to wash away my residual despair. It sort of worked, given the waves were big close-outs that pounded me to the point that I didn't have time to think for every ten-minute stretch I was caught inside.

I probably should have made distractive plans for tonight, but I have a 2000-word freelance writing gig due Monday, so I cleared out my week to work on it. Much to my delight and surprise, I cranked out a first draft effortlessly, finishing about an hour ago. Apparently, writing this blog has had the unexpected side-effect of increasing my writing speed.

So I sit here, wired from my massive journalistic output, trying to distract myself from the fact that there's no gentle, little girl snoring coming from the next room.

Tomorrow, I might surf again. Two days in a row. Imagine that.

Wednesdays are the weirdest day.

Lost and Found

2009-05-05T06:07:00.000-07:00

My sewer note made it into Found Magazine. I love this website. I'm stoked.

Misc. Notes from Divorce Man!

2009-05-03T23:06:00.001-07:00

I haven't written in a while and I'm slammed for time, but I thought you'd appreciate a quick update.

* I turned 39 last week and Actress Gina threw me a surprise birthday party at the Russian Bar. As hard as this divorce is, I am positively blown away by the friends and family, old and new, who have stuck by me through the whole thing -- even the ones who wandered back to my beach pad after the party and woke up my neighbors with a Wii Tennis tournament at 3am.

* Time alone with my daughter continues to be breathtakingly world-rocking. As it turns out, she's hilarious. And I don't mean the Family-Circus-kids-say-the-darnedest-things-kind-of-hilarious. She's developed the most amazing, sarcastic sense of humor, which I'm guessing is pretty rare in a four-year-old. Regardless of my relationship with her mother now, she remains one of the funniest women I've ever met and she's passed that on to her daughter.

She still does some quasi Family Circus stuff too, like refusing to sleep under the covers of her Tinkerbell sheets because the bed looks so nice all made up. She also befriends any snails she finds when we're walking Bruce the Dog.

* Finally, I wanted to warn you all about an internet classic rock station, 1027FM.org. I'm pretty sure it's either A) possessed by Satan or B) run by someone who really doesn't like me and has a camera hidden in my house somewhere.

A few days after I started listening to them, I went over to the ex's house -- formally my house -- to sign some papers that had something to do title transfer. Obviously, it sucked and ended in one of our now-typical, pointless arguments, so when I got back to my beach pad, I turned on 1027FM.org to chill out to some Steve Miller or whatever and guess what they were playing?

Our House by Crosby, Stills and Nash.

Then, this morning, my daughter suddenly wanted to see the suit I wore when I married her mommy, as well as the "golden ring" I used to wear. I obliged her, forcing down tears the whole time. When it was over, I turned on 1027FM.org to chill out to some Rod Stewart or whatever and guess what they were playing?

God Only Knows by The Beach Boys.

So, anyway, fuck you, 1027FM.org.

Regarding Paris literary salons and my big mouth

2009-04-25T11:07:00.001-07:00

My friend Dayna has been bugging me for months about her friend Tom Cassidy. He's a poet from Minnesota who comes out a few times a year. Despite the fact that my poetry skills are fairly sub-par, she insisted we'd get along like a house on fire.

Cassidy is in town this week, staying with his friends the Cooks, so Dayna put Mr. Cook and me together via email, but only after telling Mr. Cook that I was an artist of great skill, which is, again, less than accurate. But it was too late; Mr. Cook had been hornswoggled, so he invited me to a party he threw last night.

It was a fun evening. As it turns out, Cassidy is a damn talented man. He has this whole absurdist prankster thing going on. I, in turn, was able to bluff an aura of artistic legitimacy by showing him a copy of The Monocle and Jimmy Specs and knowing who Alexandro Jodorowsky is.

As Dayna puts it, the Cooks are "collectors." They collect diverse and interesting people, then throw them together. The whole affair reminded me of a 1920s Paris literary salon, like in A Moveable Feast. A bunch of creative people stood around, ate good food, drank and said clever things for a while, then Tom read some poetry.

I tend to be a bit of a collector myself and I have long dreamed of turning my home into a salon like this. Unfortunately, the people I collect may be creative, but they're also a bunch of drunks and there's not a single poet in the lot. Our get-togethers tend to lack a certain finesse that one associates with a literary salon. But we occasionally get loaded and play Guitar Hero, which is almost as fun.

The only hiccup of the evening came when I met the Cook's daughter, Rachel. She seemed familiar, but it still took a minute to do the math. Rachel + Cook = Rachel Leigh Cook.

I kept cool as we chatted, but then it occurred to me that our lives have intersected many, many times. My coolness waned as I told her about how her manager had expressed interest in one of my scripts, how I had been at a video shoot she'd starred in, how I'd stood next to her at Shane Black's halloween party once for, like, twenty minutes, etc.

After a while, her eyes glazed over. Of course, she had no knowledge of our many encounters. In my enthusiasm, I'd crossed a line; We were no longer two people chatting. We were a celebrity listening to a pleb admiringly waffle on. Realizing this, I made a joke to recover from my faux pas.

More correctly, I made a joke that turned my faux pas into a bigger faux pas by saying, "Jeez, listen to me. I'm, like, a total stalker."

Never tell an actress that you are stalking her, even in jest.

Anyway, my conversation with the Cooks' son went much smoother. He's into comic books and video games, so we had tons in common. He also kind of looks like Tom Cruise, but I managed to keep that to myself.

Great news! I'm depressed!

2009-04-22T11:05:00.001-07:00

It hit me like a freight train about a week ago. It's been about twelve years since I've had a big depression, but I've sat on enough therapy couches to know that I know how to cope with it, largely via rigorous exercise, creative output, intermittent sobbing fits and whiny, late night phone calls to friends.

The reason I say this is good news is because in a divorce, I'm told, you follow the Kubler-Ross phases of grief. When I first got wind of my potential divorce, I started with denial, which featured a December of trying to pretend it wasn't inevitable. Then when it became official, there was a January of hard drinking, which is sort of the ultimate denial.

February and March were anger, which I won't detail too much. Now, apparently, I'm at the depression stage, which is great because after I tough this out, acceptance comes next.

You'll notice I left out bargaining, which comes between anger and depression. I seem to have skipped that. I think maybe because the divorce mediation has been so stressful that my psyche just didn't want to deal with additional negotiation type of stuff.

But the traffic? Not so much.

2009-04-17T05:39:00.000-07:00

This is Yahoo's weather report for Los Angeles today:

Forecast Details:
Plentiful sunshine. High around 75F. Winds WNW at 10 to 15 mph.

"Plentiful sunshine." I like that. Sometimes, LA is okay.

An Hour with Mitch

2009-04-15T21:09:00.000-07:00

I was cleaning up my MacBook and found a short story I wrote about ten years ago when we lived in Australia. I don't know if I've ever shown it to anyone.

It has a completely different meaning for me today then when I first wrote it.

I had an hour until my interview with a famous old surfboard shaper, so I walked along the squeaky white beach next to my hotel in the tiny New South Wales coastal town. The Pacific offered the Australian coast a series of messy, maybe surfable waves, as I scanned the horizon, checking out the boardriders. After about ten minutes I spotted one of the most amazing behinds I’d ever seen. I had fifty more minutes to burn, so I enjoyed the view.

Technically, it was a behind in a red bikini attached to a blonde girl attached to a surfboard. She was paddling out with a friend, a brunette, and every time she ducked down under wave, her backside jutted out. She was far too outside to spot me, so I looked with impunity, although I did keep an eye out for protective boyfriends. A scraggly little guy sat on the rocks smoking a cigarette. He didn't look like boyfriend material.

I walked up the beach to the rocks that separated the sand from grass where the scraggly guy sat. He had greasy brown hair, long in the back, short in the front, a mullet. He wore a beaten up Rip Curl button-down shirt and jeans so old that they looked dirty whether they were clean or not. And thongs. The guy stared through wraparound Oakleys, past me, out to sea, probably looking at the girls.

For a moment, I thought the guy might be the boyfriend of one of the bikini surfers after all, so I tried to offer a neutrally cool sounding comment as I sat on the rock. "You think those chicks can actually surf?" I mumbled.

"Mate," mumbled back the guy with the bad haircut. "I don't care. I'm just perving. I'm a fuckin' pervert, man!" He laughed and the fronts of his teeth were white, the corners brown. It looked like he brushed, but never flossed. "I'm just checking out their big ol' snatches hanging out when they duck dive. I was walking by and I saw those two birds carrying boards down to the beach and I said to myself 'Mitch, mate, you gotta have a look.'"

I snorted and looked out at the waves. We struggled to find the girls bobbing up and down among the other surfers. Finally, a big set came through and the blonde caught a wave.

"Well, shit! I reckon they can surf!" declared Mitch. But then the brunette went over the falls and wiped out majestically. We both groaned sympathetically.

We exchanged lewd pleasantries for a while. It seemed as though Mitch hadn't had someone to talk to for a while.

"Had to give away surfing, mate," he said, "when I knocked up me old lady. Well, she was me girlfriend at the time." He then confessed that his old lady had kicked him out last week and he was living with his uncle, who owned the youth hostel around the corner. He didn't have anything nice to say about his old lady. He seemed exuberant that he now had the freedom to sit on the rocks and look at "big ol' snatches."

The break-up had been messy, "but I got the barbecue... 500 bucks, it cost me, Mate," he said. "She got me kids."

The blonde continued to surf well. Her brunette friend didn't catch much. Suddenly, Mitch stopped babbling and looked at me. "Mate, you're probably havin' me on. One of the birds out there is probably your old lady."

"No," I assured him, "My, uh, old lady isn't here." Sandie was on the other side of Australia in Melbourne. She couldn't surf like this blonde (but much better then the brunette) and if she knew I was scoping chicks and having this conversation, she probably wouldn't like it.

Mitch remained quiet for awhile, then he spoke softly. It almost sounded melancholy. "Do you call her every night?" He looked straight forward, out at the waves, but not at the surfer chicks.

"Well, no. But probably every two or three nights." We both traveled a lot, Sandie and I. So when the tyranny of distance didn't feeling so daunting, we resisted calling every night. It was cheaper that way.

I looked at my watch. My interview was in ten minutes, so I had to wander back to the hotel. Mitch and I had planned to sit on the beach until the chicks came out, to get a better look "at the blonde bird's tits" but I now contented myself with letting Mitch see it through. I stood up and brushed the sand from my shorts. "Gotta go, Mitch. Maybe I'll see you tonight at the pub."

Mitch seemed momentarily enthusiastic. "Yeah, mate. I'm goin' to the pool comp!" He pausing and looking out at the point beyond the surfers again. He seemed excited about the evening with the boys at the pub. Then he looked out at the sea, but he wasn't seeing the chicks anymore. Whatever he saw, it was probably far more important than a great butt in a red bikini. His dirty tooth grin faded. "But maybe not," He turned towards me. Had Mitch not been wearing mirrored sunglasses, we would have made eye contact. "It's have been pretty bad lately."

"Yeah, I understand," I smiled and gave Mitch the thumbs-up sign. Mitch returned the gesture and said "G'day." My heel squeaked as I turned and headed up the beach. Mitch just sat there. An hour later, when the chicks ran up the beach, giggling and jiggling back to the youth hostel, I’m guessing that Mitch didn't even notice.

My interview at Comic Bulletin

2009-04-14T10:04:00.000-07:00

Okay, enough of my soft underbelly. Here's a little taste of the rapscallion you used to read about so frequently. An excerpt from my interview in Comic Bulletin:

MC: How would you describe your writing process?

DF: I’ll spend a little while batting the ideas around in my head and taking my dog Bruce for long walks. Then I’ll make a super detailed outline and get as many notes as I can re: structure from publishers/editors/producers/girlfriends. I’d rather rework an outline than a finished script, so I try to get the structure pretty tight at that point.

Once I have something I like, I lock myself away until I have a first draft of a script. It always sucks, so I leave it alone for a few days, then go back and fix it. And the whole time, from start to finish, I pull out my hair, beat myself with blunt objects and tell myself I’ll never be able to finish the job. Self-loathing is a big motivator for me.

By the way, Helix is still coming out, I hope, but printing has been delayed until June.

I know. How are you going survive until then? Don't worry, babies. We have each other.

Writing Muslim Right

2009-04-13T16:37:00.000-07:00

Last month in my WGA Technically Speaking column, I interviewed Michael Wolfe regarding how Islam is represented on the screen. Considering he is a practicing Muslim, I was surprised at how mellow and upbeat he was about Hollywood's treatment of his religion. Shame on me for having preconceived notions.

What does Hollywood get wrong?
In a nutshell, I’d say the habit of the flat Muslim character, the tendency toward a stereotypical plotline. I’ve been writing all my life, and I know the worst habit I can indulge in, and it’s laziness.
But there was a time when the image of the day was harems and outlandishly ignorant people who were Middle Eastern in some indefinable way, who were just placed in a script to cause havoc of some sort or another. I think the pendulum has swung now. Even if you go back four or five years, you get movies likeThree Kings, which was a very interesting movie with a very nuanced Arab characterization. And Syriana was another one. The notion of accurate representation is a really important one.
I think we’re moving toward more accurate films and the value of that to the writer is that you end up with a better story. You wind up with a better character if you take the trouble to find out who that character is and what would be true to that story rather than imagining what would be right.
You’re being very forgiving of Hollywood. I’m sure they appreciate it.
Well, you know, I work there myself. I tend to be forgiving. And I think that, my goodness, we just saw an Academy Award go toSlumdog Millionaire, which was about Muslim children in India! I do believe that there is, at least, a wave beginning to break here of a different way of representing a whole topic.

My next column is probably going to be about the occult and I'm hoping to talk to a woman who owns a chain of psychic bookstores. It's been a little tough to reach her and the people I talk to keep saying, "Can I ask what this is regarding?" It's taking all my willpower not to reply, 'You're the one working at the psychic bookstore. You tell me."

Hannah Montana Meltdown

2009-04-10T21:34:00.001-07:00

I'm writing you part way through my second weekend alone with the kid in my beach pad. Today was officially Hannah Montana day.

I've known about Hannah for years and, given my daughter's love from singing, dancing and all things pink, I knew there'd be a natural connection. But people warned me against it. They suggested that listening to endless bubblegum pop is an inevitable part of being a parent, so I should stave it off as long as I can.

But here's the deal. I love bubble gum pop. I always have, from my first Shaun Cassidy LP to the High School Musical soundtrack that I occasionally "forget" to eject from the Subaru's CD player after I've dropped the kid off at school.

So at my parents house a few months ago, I took the leap and let her watch a couple episodes of Hannah Montana. It's the story of Miley Stewart (Miley Cyrus) who lives with her wacky brother and widower dad (Billy Ray Cyrus) and moonlights as pop sensation Hannah Montana.

I could practically see my daughter's brain atrophy as she stared at the set, spellbound. It was love. And, to be honest, I don't mind it either. It's just lame slapstick mixed with featherlight rock. And, right now, it's just the kind of mindless entertainment that I need, especially when it comes complete with a laughing, singing four-year-old in my lap.

So I picked up a used box set of season one and we spent the morning watching the adventures of Miley and the gang. And this afternoon, to her complete joy, we went to the El Capitan in Hollywood to see Hannah Montana: The Movie.

That's where things went terribly wrong.

As I may have mentioned, I have a weird habit of crying in movies. Usually, I can't explain it. I have no idea why Beverly Hills Chihuahua drove me to tears or why I was so profoundly moved by Forrest Gump.

However, I can tell you exactly why I sobbed uncontrollably through the third act of Hannah Montana. First off, for the last few months, I've been surviving largely on endorphins and alcohol, both of which becomes drastically less available when you're watching a preschooler 24/7, so I entered the theater in an emotionally weakened state. Second, this was a movie. Hannah Montana: The TV Show is a Disney sitcom, which means they write it to be as watery and fun as possible. Hannah Montana: The Movie is a Disney movie, which means they always play up the absentee mother and take as many cheap, melodramatic potshots as possible. I got away an occasional tear until the scene where Billy Ray breaks up with the girl of his dreams because he "needs to be there for Miley and doesn't have room for a relationship." Then, when Miley serenades Billy about how tough it must be raise her alone and what a great dad he is, I completely lost my shit. Screw you, Billy Ray Cyrus and your achy, breaky heart!

Fortunately, my daughter was too into the "Hoedown Throwdown" dance and too jacked up on pink lemonade to notice. I held it together through the rest of the film and our shabu-shabu dinner, only completely dissolving in the car on the way home after she'd passed out.

Some day, she's going to figure out what a mush-burger her dad is. Hopefully, sensitive new-age guys will be back in vogue by then.

On Beach Zen and Gophers

2009-03-27T11:28:00.000-07:00

For years, I wore an iPod every time I walked Bruce the Dog. If I was in a good mood, I'd catch up on the news or The American Life. On a bad day, I'd rock out.

But over the past few months, I've taken to walking iPodless. I need that hour of solitude to think, to sort out the daily shit storm that is a divorce. Yet, now that I've moved into my beach shack, the dynamic of the walk has changed once again. 90% of my constitutional with Bruce now takes place along the ocean which, for me, has always been a place of great clarity. For those four dozen-odd minutes, I can see the waves crashing and the surfers surfing. I can smell the salt, burning sand and seaweed. It washes the post-marital flotsam and jetsam from my psyche. I feel good.

So suddenly, with neither stress nor earbuds clogging my brain, I see and hear things I've never registered before. The ramps down to the bike path would make an excellent skateboard slalom, despite the giant, red signs stating the contrary. The waves at Avenue C are half the size of the waves in either direction, but no one ever surfs there, so I will. There's a woman who walks at roughly the same time I do and refers to her dog as "Sandwich."

Yesterday, we were walking in the dirt next to the sidewalk -- because Bruce likes his dirt -- when a gopher popped out of the ground in front of us. I've never seen a wild gopher before. Clearly, he hadn't expected visitors. You could almost see the exclamation point leaping from his skull as he ducked back down. I turned to a woman walking close by and said, "Hey! Look! A gopher!"

She hadn't noticed and she didn't respond. She was wearing an iPod.

I wonder how many gophers I've missed over the years.

How to rock-out a four-year-old

2009-03-22T21:27:00.000-07:00

In the event of an impromptu air guitar jam with your pre-school daughter, I recommend the following albums:

Destroyer by Kiss
The Original Motion Picture Soundtrack to Josie and the Pussycats
Parallel Lines by Blondie

I do not recommend:

Quartet, vol. 2 by Oscar Peterson and Stephane Grappelli, no matter how much she insists she wants to hear jazz, whatever that is.

For entertaining a four-year-old during an air guitar jam, I recommend the following techniques:

Flying scissor kick, mid-guitar solo
Behind the back guitar solo
Lying on ground with knees bent behind your back ala Jimmi Hendrix guitar solo

For nursing minor aches and pains in a 38-year-old dad after flying scissor kick, mid-guitar solo:

3 ibuprofen

The Homecoming

2009-03-20T19:39:00.001-07:00

Tonight was my daughter's first night in my new pad, or the "pink apartment" as she's dubbed it, due to the color of the exterior. It was one of the primary reasons she approved me renting here.

When I picked the kid up for school today, it suddenly occurred to me: from here on out, I was on my own when it comes to setting up house for her. It came as a shock because I haven't been doing much nesting lately. For the last few months, my time with my daughter has either been at my parents' place or back at what-used-to-be-my-house when Sandie is away on business. I don't know if you've ever had to stay in a house that's no longer your home due to a divorce, but take it from me, it sucks ass.

Anyway, as usual, I flew into a complete panic. I'd already bought the kid a Tinkerbell bed set, a bunch of books and toys, a towel, a small pink chair and a fridge full of her favorite foods, but suddenly that didn't seem like enough. I mean, I hadn't even bought her shampoo! Bastard! I'm the worst dad in the world.

I scrambled to Target where I spent an hour doing five minutes of shopping. It had to be perfect. Dora's Pirate Adventure DVD. High School Musical clothes hamper. Supergirl comic book. You know, the essentials. I got in line to pay and then realized I'd forgotten the shampoo, so I went back for that.

The better part of the afternoon was spent making the place as kid-friendly as possible. At one point, I texted a friend, "Kid's staying the night tonight. Scared shitless" because I was. This was going to be her home, from now on, fifty percent of the time. I felt like I only had one shot. If she didn't dig the pad, it might become a chore staying with dad.

I picked her up from school. She'd only seen the apartment empty, so on the drive home, she was concerned as to how we were going to go about our business for the evening without tables, chairs or a television. I explained to her that we now have all three, except no cable and therefore no Tivo. This was a momentary challenge, until I explained we could always watch DVDs. She seemed okay with that.

The pink chair was the first thing she noticed. Then the Dora DVD. Then the black card table acting as a temporarily kitchen table. They all thrilled her to pieces. She spent the next twenty minutes examining every detail of every room in minute detail, cooing about the "great Tinkerbell sheets" or the "great blue lamp in your bedroom that used to be in Mommy's office" or the "great shampoo that smells like strawberries." (Technically, it was melon scented, but I let that slide.)

She had a turkey dog for dinner and I had a salad. Well, technically, she had the bun of a turkey dog drowned in ketchup, but tonight was not a night for lectures. Then there was a bath where, as usual, she complained bitterly when I washed her face, much to my great amusement. Then some tooth brushing, a round of cheering and hugs because I'd forgotten to buy dental floss, a little comic book reading and sleep.

It was one of the greatest nights of my life.

I sit here now as my daughter sleeps, in her room, in my place. I feel like a dad again. A weird blend of joy, relief, gratitude and loneliness floats around my head.

This is what they mean by bittersweet.

Surfer Pete's Weird Fruit Bowl

2009-03-19T14:28:00.000-07:00

My friend Pete is a hippy surfer. We first met when I was living Down Under. He was fresh from a divorce and suddenly had a bunch of free time on his hands. I was an advertising art director desperately in need of a little soul. We became best friends instantly.

On the coffee table of his beach shack was a huge wooden bowl filled with creepy wooden fruit in it. Something you might see decorating a fake living room set-up in a Thomasville Home Furnishings. It stuck out horribly amongst his surfboards, patchouli candles, guitars, Buddhism for Beginners books and various other hippy surfer junk. Whenever it came up in conversation, he'd explain bluntly that it was a wedding present and then he'd shrug. Next topic.

Another thing about Pete is that he's an amazing listener. Sandie and I had a few breakdowns when we were living in Australia and Pete was always there to hear me work through them. He never judged and rarely commented. Just listened. In retrospect, being newly single, he probably had all kinds of opinions about my relationship turmoil, but he knew to let me talk things through on my own.

And we never once talked about his divorce. I would have listened, had he brought up, but he never did.

I, conversely, have been talking about my fresh divorce nonstop for months now. For the first thirty days, I could only avoid discussing it by getting hammered, so I did, a lot. Fortunately, other diversions have since presented themselves. Among them is my new little beach pad.

After almost two decades of cohabitation, decorating on my own terms is liberating. Eclectic household objects that never made it past the previous design committee, such as my fire extinguisher umbrella stand and my great-great-grandfather Joseph Davenport's 100-year-old Masonic sword, are now displayed with great prominence around my living room.

Also on display is a Celtic-themed wooden bowl my sister Debi brought us from her honeymoon in Ireland. When she gave it to us, our house had reached a point of maximum-chotchkey. Neither Sandie nor I were all that impressed by it. It had been sitting in our closet ever since. But for some reason, when I unpacked it the other day, it was suddenly the coolest bowl in the world. It was a symbol of my family, the group of complete lunatics who, more than anyone, has been listening to my scrambled ravings for the last few months, who I spent Christmas night with last year because I couldn't handle staying in my own home and who will be an integral part of my life until the day I die. No. matter. what.

I put the bowl in my hallway and filled it with loose change, stick-on tattoos and a yo-yo. It has become my huge wooden bowl filled with creepy wooden fruit.

I wonder if this means I'll stop talking about the divorce any time soon.

Surfdog Millionaire

2009-03-10T18:02:00.000-07:00

The divorce is moving along smooth(ish)ly. Lots of financial issues to sort out. For example, yesterday I canceled all our joint-owned store credit credit cards. For the most part, when the person on the other end of the line would ask why, I'd simply say, "it's personal" and they'd respect that.

But not the guy from the Gap. I had clearly reached a call center in India. As he read from his script, he seemed completely oblivious to the raising irritation in my voice as he put me on hold twice and tried three times to upgrade me to a "Gap Visa." I should have just hung up, but I, in turn, was trying to get him to send a cancellation confirmation letter. Finally, I lost it and yelled, "DUDE! STOP IT! I'M GETTING A DIVORCE, ALRIGHT? I DON'T WANT THE DAMN UPGRADE! JUST CANCEL MY CARD AND SEND ME MY LETTER!"

He "humbly apologized" and agreed to send in 6-10 business days.

As I hung up, I wondered if people in Bombay often get called "dude."

Sat and Spun

2009-03-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

Sit 'n Spin went really well last night. Maybe I'm just getting used to this spoken word thing or maybe I made my backstage vodka & tonic too strong, but I was actually kind of happy with my performance.

When I returned backstage, Taylor Negron, who was also performing, asked me how big the crowd was. I told him that I had been blinded by the stage lights and couldn't tell. But then I got curious too, so I walked to the side of the stage and, in what I thought at the time was a stealthy maneuver, looked out at the audience. It was a pretty full house. I even spotted my friends.

Then they spotted me.

I should have just ducked backstage, but I panicked. Wanting to verify that they could actually see me, I waved. They waved back.

I then slouched back to the dressing room and confirmed to Taylor that it was a packed audience.

"You just walked out on the stage, didn't you?" he smirked.

"Um, yeah. Is that bad?" I replied.

"Well, yeah, it's kind of unprofessional, but it's also kind of cute, so you're okay," he said. Then he told me I looked like Griffin Dunne. Somehow, that made it all okay.

Sit, Spin, Whatever

2009-03-03T06:57:00.000-08:00

So this is exciting. If you read Easy Fiend regularly, you might recall that I'm a big Sit 'n Spin fan.

Well, I'm performing there on Thursday night.

If you're in the neighborhood, please come by. It's free, but you need to book tickets in advance, so call 1-323-960-5519. It's at 8pm at the Comedy Central Stage. 6539 Santa Monica Boulevard. Hollywood, CA 90038.

See you there.

Teaching an old dog old tricks

2009-02-26T18:02:00.000-08:00

Tonight, I was reading last night's blog to the grandmother of the aforementioned teenager. She laughed for a second, then said, "That's funny. By the way, how do you snort a Sharpie, exactly?"

Again with the bad seed sewing.

Teaching a new dog old tricks

2009-02-25T21:12:00.001-08:00

Tonight, in a moment of annoyance, I offhandedly accused a teenager also living in the house I'm staying at of stealing all the Sharpie markers out of my room and snorting them to get high.

She looked at me blankly for a beat, then said, "You can do that?"

I felt as though I had just sewn a very bad seed.

Flexible Metal Superheroes and my Dad's Frilly Shirts

2009-02-21T07:22:00.000-08:00

I think I was nine when I came up with Alumanum (sic) Man. Like many guys, I spent my boyhood deeply immersed in various fantasies worlds, be they filled with superheroes, space ships or Godzilla. Unlike most guys, I never really moved past that.

There are no surviving photos of me dressed as Alumanum Man, but this representation is fairly accurate, from what I can recall. The hat was a two-gallon milk jug, wrapped in tin foil with a head-hole cut out of it. (Note the "2%" on the forehead.) The cape was one of my mom's old, red night gowns. The clingy, seventies nylon draped nicely off my shoulders. It also flowed well in the wind whenever I needed to chase villains on foot.

The shirt was this massive, white frilly number commandeered from my dad's fife-and-drum corps uniform. The fife-and-drum were a revolutionary war re-creationist branch of the Shriners who performed in parades playing (big surprise!) fifes -- sort of a flute/recorder hybrid -- and drums. My dad was a fife man.

The pants were rolled up jeans with buttons holding them up. The one on the right is actually a Mork-and-Mindy button that read "Nanoo Nanoo."

The socks were white knee-highs again from my dad's fife-and-drum get-up that I neatly rolled down to mid-shin. At this point, you probably think that my dad was some kind of weird, flute-playing fruitcake, but I assure you, he's all manly man and could probably kick your dad's ass. In fact, he knows taekwondo, which he rarely used on us kids. And when he did, it was purely for comedic affect.

Anyway, I don't remember Alumanum Man's powers. I do, however, remember running around my neighborhood, mom's synthetic nightgown flowing in the wind, yelling, "I am Alumanunununuman Man!" because for most pre-pubescents, deliberating mispronouncing big words like aluminum is comic gold.

He also had a bitchin' utility belt. That coiled tube on the right was used as some kind of P.A. system or bugle -- clearly to make up for my dad's girly little fife. It consisted of a length of garden hose with a funnel crammed into one end. In other words, my nine-year-old superhero creation walked around unknowingly with a beer bong in his belt.

I was truly ahead of my time.

My latest WGA column

2009-02-12T20:46:00.000-08:00

Here's my latest WGA "Technically Speaking" Column. It's with football coordinator Allan Graf. He's a manly guy and it felt very much like he could have physically clobbered me through the telephone line, had he so choose.

If you've been reading these columns regularly, you'll notice I got a little fancy in the introduction with the whole "Um, no" and "Please don't sack us" business. That's because now that I've established how the column works in my head, I'm playing around a little with the voice. I might just go back to playing it straight next time. After all, this is the type of thing people read for the subject, not the interviewer, so it's important not to showboat. I'm no Geraldo Rivera. Not yet, anyway.

Does anyone know a headhunter who specializes in Uzi-toting thugs?

2009-02-09T21:34:00.001-08:00

I just finished watching Casino Royale. It wasn't bad. A refreshing reboot for an ailing franchise or whatever -- and I didn't mind the nut-smacking scene as much as people said I would. Honestly, as of late, it feels as though I've had worse.

But I do have one complaint. In just about every movie I've ever seen that involves a machine gun, there's a scene where the protagonist is running and some stooge with an automatic perched in a window tries to mow him down by shooting a trail of bullets behind him.

If I were a machine gunner, I'd move my barrel the quarter-inch it takes to aim in front of the target and then shoot backwards towards him. Best case, the bullets and the target meet halfway and mission accomplished. Worst case, the target has to turn and run the other direction, so you may not kill him, but at least you pissed him off by not letting him get to where he was trying to go.

I think I missed my calling.

Ask A Punk

2009-02-06T11:43:00.000-08:00

My favorite blog du jour is Ask A Punk. It has one of those damn "Why didn't I think of that?" simple premises; People write in with questions for a punk rocker and the guy who runs it, Tom, gives 'em answers. Tom's done everything from play the axe in bands to write for DC Comics and his years of hard livin' have given him a wisdom I certainly don't possess.

Recently, I posted a question to Ask A Punk. Here it is. Hit the link to read his sagely answer.

Dear Ask a Punk -
I purchased a studded leather belt about a year ago to get in touch with my inner punk. It's given me excellent results but I now find myself wanted to take it to the next level. Is a nipple piercing an acceptable form of punk rebellion for a 38-year-old suburban fathear? – Easy Fiend

Drunken Zombie Interview

2009-02-03T14:54:00.001-08:00

My fellow roustabouts over at Drunken Zombie interviewed me recently about Helix, the new book I'm doing for Studio 407. I had some fun with this one and made a fool of myself -- actually on purpose this time.

Check out the podcast here. Ultra-mini-minor-celebrity-hood is starting to grow on me...

Would you like your cocktail on the rocks, blended or smeared across the freeway?

2009-01-29T13:25:00.000-08:00

I was reading Wine Enthusiast Magazine's 100 Top Wines issue the other day. (Don't we all?) Of special interest were the goofy "flavors" that the experts use to describe the wines, such as candied pineapple, layers of white currants and dark resin. Wine tasting is a noble endeavor and all but, seriously, could you pick the taste of a white currant out of a multi-colored currant line-up? I don't think so.

Things really got especially wacky in the "Top 50 Spirits" section, with flavors including bacon fat, s'mores, cereal (a bit vague, that one) and oaky vanillin. The best was the list for Los Danzantes Reposado Mezcal, which included "rubber tire, burnt matchstick, road tar and intriguing scents of limestone, charcoal and cigar ash."

So, apparently, if you were trying to light a cigar while driving on a hot day and got into a wreck, you'd taste a bit like Los Danzantes. I cannot imagine a grosser flavor to put into a margarita.

Overheard in Hermosa Beach, part 5

2009-01-26T10:37:00.000-08:00

I was walking Bruce the Dog on the Strand this morning when a homeless guy in a sharp-looking, red, Gore-tex jacket jumped up from the pile of dirt he was sleeping on and yelled at nobody in particular, "AHHHHHH! Hillary is taking Jefferson's seat! AHHHH!"

He collapsed, mumbling, "Gonna die." Then he expectorated thickly.

I still haven't completely processed the event.

Mad Love

2009-01-23T15:11:00.000-08:00

This week, I've been to two separate divorce lawyers in two separate buildings. Both times, the elevators were lined with those big, thick quilts that movers use to protect walls. It made the confined space feel a lot like a padded cell.

This divorce is a horrid experience but, apparently, it's even harder on some people.

An Explanation

2009-01-18T08:43:00.001-08:00

If you're a regular reader, you may have noticed that I haven't been posting as often as I usually do over the last few weeks.

The reason for this is that I'm going through a divorce. It wasn't my choice, but when one player in the marital ping-pong match puts down her paddle and walks away, the other player doesn't have a lot of say in the matter.

So anyway, the point is that I'm not finding life to be all that amusing lately, and it's hampering the dry, hilarious wit you all love me for. If you have the patience, stick with me because this, too, shall pass. Otherwise, I understand. It is what it is.

That said, I'm getting by and learning about life at an alarming rate. For instance, I'm amazed at the loyalty and compassion of friends I thought were merely drinking buddies. I also know that I'm not really cut out to pick up women in bars because my idea of a successful outing is dancing with a woman who looks a little like a shorter version of Heather Thomas and only stepping on her toes once, which sums up nicely my time last night at Naja's Place at the Redondo Beach Pier.

After Heather announced that one song was all her toes could handle, my drinking buddies, Screenwriter Tom and Producer Omar, decided to move on to Old Tony's. Halfway there, Omar -- clearly inspired by the English soccer jersey he was wearing -- went hooligan on me and tried to start a fist fight. Normally, that's not my thing, but for some reason, the idea of beating the crap out of a friend suddenly seemed oddly appealing. We squared off, but no punches were thrown because Omar stumbled, fell and twisted his ankle. I picked him up as he yelled angrily to the world that the only thing to heal his pain was a plate of Chinese noodles and we soldiered on.

After Omar got his chow mien, we went to Old Tony's, where I ordered us a round of "whatever that drink is that comes in the souvenir glass you can keep." Omar took one sip of his cocktail, announced loudly that it tasted like cough syrup and limped out.

I sat in the bar for a while, marveling at how the Redondo Beach singles scene consists entirely of tubby, scruffy 20-something-year-old jack-asses in baseball caps successfully hitting on beautiful Asian women and blondes and how, as much as I don't want to be in this situation, I need to deal with it. I then collected our glasses, paid for our drinks and left.

Down on the pier, Omar was sitting with Tom and Actress Gina, who had caught up with us after the premier of a new play she was doing. I wanted to go see the play, but she wouldn't let me come because she was too worried it would suck. This strikes me as odd, given when things suck, that's when you want your friends around you most. But that's my opinion, not Gina's and her show last night was about her, not me, so I respected that.

Technically, Omar's souvenir glass was mine because I paid for it -- and I'm currently restocking a kitchen so I need it more than he does -- but I gave it to him anyway.

Dances with Comic Books

2009-01-13T15:36:00.000-08:00

Recently, I spoke with a comic book publisher who might be interested in working with me. It was a good phone conversation, so, buoyed by the prospect of some potentially fun work, I actually ending the conversation with this:

"Okay, that sounds great! Tell ya what. Let's start with one title for me to work on. We'll do a little dance, see how we like each other as dance partners and if it works, keep on dancin'."

"Do a little dance?" "Dance partners?" What the hell? Obviously, my slick little comment was followed by stoney silence. Not wanted to be outdone in the stupid-things-to-say-in-a-business-setting sweepstakes, the publisher then responded, "Yowza."

I don't know what that means and I don't know if it makes me feel any less stupid.

Kung Fu Writing

2009-01-08T22:32:00.000-08:00

Here's my latest Technically Speaking column for the WGA. It's an interview with martial arts choreographer Pat E. Johnson. He did The Karate Kid, Mortal Kombat and a ton of other movies.

My favorite part of this interview is when he slags the movie Delta Force, which stars his good buddy Chuck Norris. You gotta have balls to slag Chuck Norris, especially if you know him personally.

How about the other aspects of martial arts, the history, the philosophy? What do TV and movies get right and get wrong?
The martial arts originated with Buddhist monks, 3000 years ago. These monks were holy men. They didn’t believe in violence and they would do everything to avoid violence. They developed it as self-defense.
However, I’m going to take one example Chuck Norris did in Delta Force. If you recall the opening sequence, all too often, what writers do in martial arts film is have what I call the “obligatory fight.” And the obligatory fight generally has nothing to do with the plot. It’s to show that this guy, our hero, can fight and use these particular skills.
In one of the earlier sequences, Chuck Norris was sitting in a Chinese restaurant when three young, punk kids come in. They started making a lot of noise, and they badger this old, Chinese man who’s a friend of Chuck Norris. So Chuck Norris comes over, and he beats the crap out of these three young kids.
It was the wrong thing to do.
If I’d either written or choreographed it, I would have had Chuck walk over to the guy with the biggest mouth, place his hand on the guy’s shoulder and put some pressure on a pressure point at the clavicle. You can see the guy react in pain, and Chuck says in a very calm voice something like, “You know, Mr. So-and-so is just trying to do his job. You don’t want to give him a hard time, do ya?” When the kid’s friends get up, he puts a little more pressure on it and says, “Would you please ask your friends to sit down?” and the guy says, “Ahhhh! Sit down! Ahhhh!” And he lets the kid go and he walks back to his table.
That, to me, would have said so much more about Chuck Norris and the true spirit of the martial arts, as opposed to walking over, losing his cool and beating the crap out of three kids who were not worthy opponents.
All too often, we get that obligatory fight that has no meaning, discredits our hero and discredits the martial arts more than it helps and enhances or really demonstrates what the martial arts are all about.

Me, onstage again. Run while you can.

2009-01-07T07:49:00.000-08:00

I'm going back on stage the weekend after next for another dramatic reading of Sock Monkey, the monologue based on the time I sold dirty socks on eBay.

This time, I'll be rockin' the westside at:

I LOVE A GOOD STORY

AT THE WESTSIDE ECLECTIC

SUNDAY, JANUARY 18TH, 4pm

310-850-8814
(RESERVATIONS AND EASY DIRECTIONS)

1323-A-3rd st. Promenade, Santa Monica, CA, 90401 (in the alley) between 3rd and 4th St. You need not fear. FREE PARKING in the city lots. Lots of talent for one hour in one room for 10 bucks. This month’s storytellers are: BETTY GOLDSTEIN, DENIS FAYE, ERIN BROWN, JANET BLAKE, LANCE WHINERY

Take that, Calorie King!

2009-01-06T11:43:00.000-08:00

An unfortunate pairing of counter displays at my local Barnes & Noble.

How not to party with a Hollywood director.

2009-01-05T13:09:00.000-08:00

This weekend, I had drinks with a director who's interested in one of my scripts. Hollywood directors are an interesting bunch. They have an odd aura that I can't quite put my finger on. People tend to pay attention to what they say and they always seem to make sense, no matter how wrong they are. For example, if a Hollywood director said to you, "You should wear your underpants on your head," you might not do it, but you'd definitely give it serious thought.

I did a little internet research regarding this aura. Turns out, it's something called "self confidence." I'm intrigued and I'd like to learn more. If anyone knows where I might be able to get hold of some of this "self confidence," please let me know.

Anyway, from what I remember, we had a fine time the other night, although I did make a faux pas or two. As a public service, here are a few things not to do if you ever find yourself drinking with a Hollywood director.

Take him to a bar in a strip mall next to a Big Lots.
Get up and dance when the band plays a Wang Chung cover -- especially in a well-lit bar.
Invite him to join you in the men's room to check out some of the "amazing art" on the wall above the urinal.
Sneak out of the bar for a quick nap in his fine European automobile.
On the ride home, mention that there's a slim chance you might vomit on the leather interior of his fine European automobile.

I hope these pearls of wisdom help.

Bill Murray's New Year Resolutions

2009-01-04T14:54:00.000-08:00

Here's an article I wrote recently for a fitness company called Beachbody. Sometimes, I really love working for them because Steve, the guy who edits my stuff, lets me get away with all kinds of shenanigans.

Bill Murray's 6 New Year's Resolution Tips
By Denis Faye

It's almost the New Year, and odds are, you're putting the finishing touches on this year's resolutions. "Eat better. Exercise more. Stop drinking Coke." And so on . . .
They're never easy, are they? In fact, most of us blow every item on the list before January is even over. After all, we're only human. So to guide us to the next level of resolution-keeping, Beachbody® has sought counsel from someone who is more than human. A god among men. A general among privates. A monster truck among sedans.
This year, we're going to take our New Year's resolution cues from Bill Murray.
Bill may not strike you as a fitness expert, and, as his performance on the elliptical trainer in Lost in Translationindicates, he certainly isn't one. He is, however, a font of knowledge when it comes to life matters. Even the quickest of perusals through his film catalogue offers an abundance of tips for anyone looking to keep his or her New Year's resolutions.
"Baby steps." In What About Bob?, Bill plays a manipulative obsessive-compulsive learning to get through life using "baby steps," as suggested by his shrink, Richard Dreyfuss. Try baby steps with your resolutions. You don't need to swear off all processed sugar and have washboard abs by the end of 2009. Start by limiting sweets to once a week and working out 5 days a week. If that's too much, swear off ice cream and walk 3 days a week. Pick an achievable goal, and when you reach it, pick another one.
"A former greenskeeper, now about to become the Masters champion." Baby steps might not be enough for you. Maybe it's six-pack abs or nothing. If this is the case, think about Bill in Caddyshack. As groundskeeper Carl, he spends the entire film hatching grandiose plans to beat that gopher.
It never occurs to him to take it one hole at a time. The same goes for you. The abs can be the goal, but start with cleaning up the diet, getting the exercise on a regular basis, burning the fat, building the muscle, etc. This way, if the year is up and you haven't quite got the abs you want, you'll still feel like you accomplished a lot along the way.
"If that were our plane, it'd be crashing." In Quick Change, Bill robs a New York bank. It goes off without a hitch, until the supposed "easy part," the getaway to the airport, turns out to be wrought with obstacles, thus forcing him to continually improvise.
It's almost certain that you're going to hit all kinds of surprise road bumps on the way to your goals. Your body is every bit as complex and chaotic as Manhattan is to Bill and his accomplices. When things go egg-shaped, change your route or, if necessary, alter your goals.
"Stewardess, is there a movie on this flight?" In Stripes, Bill joins the army, but he brings the party with him. P90X®may be a boot camp, but that doesn't mean you can't have a little fun mingled in with the pain. Pick an outfit you're dying to wear and make it a goal to fit into it. Learn to jump rope. Buy a pogo stick and pledge to get up to 100 bounces. Make a point of going dancing once a month. Mock Tony as he bosses you around on screen—whatever it takes.
"How about a little teamsmanship?" The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou finds Bill struggling to understand the relationships in his life. In the end, he learns about the power of friendship and family. The same goes for you. Don't be afraid to ask for support from the people around you. Or, you can also look to the Beachbody Message Boards and to our workout partnering system, WOWY.com, for motivation and inspiration.
"We came, we saw, we kicked its . . . ." Bill goes up against insurmountable odds to defeat the Sumerian god Gozer the Gozerian in Ghostbusters. Sometimes, it may feel like you'd have better luck fighting the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man than achieving your goals. The odds may be against you, the pounds of fat many, and the cravings intense, but if you sit there and fret, you'll never know if you can do it. The same lesson can be pulled from watching Bill play the role of Polonius in Hamlet. Bill Murray doing Shakespeare? Exactly. You never know unless you try, so don't be afraid of no ghost.
"I'll give you a winter prediction: It's gonna be cold, it's gonna be grey, and it's gonna last you for the rest of your life." If you try and you fail, remember Groundhog Day, which finds Bill living the same day over and over until he gets it right. Just because you mess up your resolution doesn't mean you've been beaten. Just take a deep breath and try again. Eventually, you'll figure it out. And don't forget, if your goal is to do Slim in 6®but you only made it through 4 weeks, that's still 4 weeks of fitness that will back you up for your next try.
Listen to Uncle Bill. He knows what he's talking about. Take this advice regarding your resolutions, and, just as Bill famously said to John Candy inStripes, you'll soon be a "lean, mean, fighting machine."

Inappropriate, For Kids - Part Two

2009-01-01T20:28:00.000-08:00

We took the kid to the library the other day and. I glanced through the titles in the children's section, I discovered a book called Grandma Lena's Big Ol' Turnip.

Unnerved and somewhat titillated by this potential innuendo, I continued searching, only to discover dozens of books with similarly questionable titles. Alert the Christian Coalition of America; it appears the book buyer for the Hermosa Beach Public Library is in league with Satan.

Tales from the Waterhole
I Like Your Buttons
Mr. Little's Noisy Train
Bunny Money
Rocko and Spanky go to a Party
Little Monster Did It
My Little Red Car
Muncha! Muncha! Muncha!
Don't Let The Peas Touch!
Henry's Freedom Box
Chato Goes Cruisin'
The Great Fuzz Frenzy
Bear Wants More
Full Worm Moon (if someone wants to explain this one to me, please do.)
Waiting for Mr. Goose

and my favorite, The Pigeon finds a Hotdog.

Inappropriate, For Kids - Part One

2008-12-31T13:01:00.000-08:00

My daughter has a stuffed mouse you can dress and undress. I've probably spent more time trying to sort out my thoughts on the tag that came with it than she has actually playing with the toy itself.

Frank Miller versus the Four-Year-Old

2008-12-22T21:30:00.000-08:00

At 9:30am last Saturday, the publicity guy from Lion's Gate called to bump my interview with Frank Miller forward 30 minutes from its scheduled 10:00am time slot. Were it an interview with any other writer on earth, I would have told him to get stuffed. He had arranged a time and 9:30 just wouldn't work for me. But this is Frank Miller, the guy who reinvented Batman. He's a long-time personal hero and I didn't want to jeopardize this chance to talk with him, so I plopped the kid in front of Dora the Explorer and ran for my office. To my shock and frustration, for the first time in her life, she didn't feel like watching television. I had no choice but to do the interview anyway.

If you listen to the recording of our conversation, you'd hear Frank Miller talking to an extremely distracted journalist while a loud four-year-old protests in the background the entire time. I'm pretty sure Frank heard the kid too.

Surprisingly, it still turned out alright. Here is my WGAw interview with Frank Miller regarding his new movie, The Spirit.

Winners of the Great Easy Fiend Humiliation Contest

2008-12-21T20:23:00.000-08:00

The first thing I want to say is that holding a contest is a pain in the butt. I thought it might provide me with days and days of easy content. Instead, it provided me with hours and hours of guilt and angst because so many people put so much effort into their entries, yet I can't say something cliche like, "You're all winners!" because I only have one, not-autographed copy of American Tabloid by the bastard James Ellroy to give away.

So David Nadelberg, founder of Mortified read through everything and for first place, he picked Mary over at Boulder Musings for her Family Feud debacle. "The fact that her humiliation had more witnesses (thanks, network TV!) makes me feel for her the most," he mused. "Also, GSN (Game Show Network) is likely still playing it to the day."

The second place winner of the awesome 80s mix CD is Dorinda Fox at So They Know About Mom, or "the naked woman" as Dave called her. "Mostly because I blame her for participating, in some small way, in getting Ronald Reagan in the White House."

So thank you everyone who played!

Alien versus Keith Haring

2008-12-18T15:01:00.000-08:00

Sometimes the kid and I do art. If I'm not careful, I tend to steamroll her with "helpful" hints, so while she's painting I usually paint something too, just to distract myself. But my primary focus is still on her, so my subconscious often gets quite a say in my masterpieces.

I wonder what yesterday's project meant...

Last of the Humiliation Entries

2008-12-17T02:09:00.000-08:00

Here are the last entries for the Great Easy Fiend Humiliation Contest that I plan on posting. If I missed you, I'm sorry. Let me know and I'll bro you out.

I'll post the winners as soon as David gets back to me.

Angrymom did a little ironic puking. (You don't get to write those two words together too often.)

Lea Lane commented on the Easy Fiend Open Salon blog telling us why, I'm guessing, she's in therapy to this day.

I will give you my earliest, and although it might seem mild to you, I have never forgotten it.

I was six, dancing at a major recital in Dinner Key Auditorium in Coconut Grove Florida. All the dance classes participated so there were thousands, mostly parents, in the audience.

I was shy. Very. My tutu was too large but I was afraid to ask for help. I thought I could just hold on to it. I forgot I had to raise my arms over my head in my little solo.

My tutu fell off. The audience roared, I'm sure now because they thought it was so cute. But I was mortified. I was wearing silly-looking panties, and I rushed off the stage.

I stopped dance class. I remained shy. I still think of that moment, and what public humiliation felt like. But I'm now dancing as fast as I can, with velcro.

Boanerges1 tells a story that's very similar to what Ernest Hemingway would write should he enter a contest like this. Manly all the way.

There really are too many to count, but one that can still make me cringe happened in August 1992 in a small country inn in France.

I was there as part of the media contingent to cover the 50th anniversary of the disastrous Dieppe Raid, and had manged to wangle an exclusive interview with one of the many heroes of that day -- Lt.-Col. Cec Merritt, who was awarded the Victoria Cross for his bravery and courage under fire, and whom I admired a great deal.

I was teatotal at the time, and determined to keep it that way, so as we sat in the cool, low-ceilinged pub, I eschewed beer or anything else remotely alcoholic, and ordered (in horrible schoolboy French) a glass of cider.

It was good cider. Most excellent cider. Perfect antidote to the heat outside. While the interview continued, I ordered several more glasses. It was ... deliciously refreshing. It was only after I discovered I was having trouble focussing that I deduced it was also alcohol-based. I have no idea how much, but something not dissimilar to ... oh ... I don't know. Let's say 80-proof. Probably not really, but.

By the end of the interview, Merritt was stone faced and stone cold sober. I wasn't. In fact, I was about ready to face-plant the oak table we were sitting at. My notes were a mess, and the tape recorder I habitually used to back up those notes had run out without me noticing.

How could I explain to this man, who'd led his regiment from the front into hellacious enemy fire, who'd been wounded twice and spent nearly three years in a PoW camp, that I wasn't like this at all, at least not habitually, anyway.

I couldn't, that's how. We walked (well, he walked; I staggered) out of the inn into the August sunshine and heat, him to join the members of his South Saskatchewan Regiment who had also made the trip, and me to try to pull the fragments I remembered of the interview into a coherent 800-word story to send back to Canada.

I was up very late that night.

Running out of Humiliation Headlines

2008-12-16T09:13:00.000-08:00

Okay, today and tomorrow are the last days I'll be posting entries here. Then it's off to David Nadelberg, founder of Mortified, to pick the winners. FYI, Dave isn't above bribery and scandal, so if you buy his book and email him about it, it'll probably work in your favor.

Here are more entries for the Great Easy Fiend Humiliation Contest.

Moana at A tempest within wrote about her most humiliating high school moment. Ironically, it also happens to be one of my top five high school fantasies.

Sally Swift at DailySally writes about a poetry gaffe in high school. It answers a question I've always pondered. "What do smart people get embarrassed about?"

Stephanie Kuohujoki at Bird by Bird tells us how a simple, silly mistake made in college can be compounded by stoner assholes.

And finally, Dick Day posted this comment on my Open Salon blog. The man was just trying to take a whiz. Is that so wrong?

I was living at a local resort in the far north. It was January tenth and the sun was out and it was about 5 % f and my dog told me it was time for our morning four mile sojourn into the snowy wilderness. It is a Tuesday and only a few old folks stay up here through the winter. There was no wind and in the cold it is so quiet.

There is a purity to it all. Bugs and creepy crawly things are all dead. Bacteria and viruses are all dead. The trees pretend to be dead.

I got on the usual gear. underwear, long underwear, heavy pants, shirt, sweater, overcoat, boots. The 55 year old and the 55 year old dog (in dog years) proceeded outside into the tundra.

We got about two miles out and the scout did her business and while I was waiting, I had the urge to do some watering myself.

Necessity is the mother of catastrophe. It is no easy task to find one's johnson under these circumstances, but I managed to pull him out and oh what a relief it was.

Just at that moment, Scout became curious as to my stream and so I had to keep her away from my immediate chore.

Now I emphasise that at this time of year, Scout and I are the only living creatures on this path for months. But out of the blue, some rich lady in a $300.00 running suit turns onto my path.

There is me trying to relieve myself and control the dog.

I felt like some degenerate in a New York subway.

The runner looked at me in disgust.

I did not attempt to greet her due to my condition at the time.

Needless to say, that was the last time I tried that.

More Humiliation for You

2008-12-15T09:07:00.000-08:00

Here are today's stock of humbling stories for the Great Easy Fiend Humiliation Conte st:

Randall Sokoloff gave us some blow-by-blow, real-time reporting regarding the swallowing of his wedding ring and his attempts to get it back out.

Dorinda Fox at So They Know About Mom explains how overmedication can turn even the most civilized young lady into raving trailer trash.

And here are a couple who posted comments on my Open Salon blog.

Bob Conner probably thanks the Lord to this day that Mormons wear funny underpants, as opposed to going commando:

A few centuries ago, I was a young, fit (although quite naïve) Okie on a two-year adventure as a Mormon missionary. With a King Kong sized libido, I looked forward to every opportunity to “converse” with the California girls I had newly discovered. Wow, what a variety of beauty.

As missionaries, we were often asked to speak to the congregation about one thing or another and as missionaries, we took full advantage of that opportunity. You see, in that particular religion, guest speakers were similarly arranged as guest speakers for business occasions; each speaker on the “stage” behind a podium facing the crowd awaiting their turn to speak, so we had ample opportunity to scope the chicks.

Moments prior to this particular Sunday’s service, I strolled up to the church, spoke with a few of the congregation, entered the building, went to the restroom, got a drink of water and spoke to a few more members of the congregation. Then the time for the service was at hand, so I, the other guest speakers and the church officials took our places behind the podium.

As the service began to unfold, I notice a gorgeous young teenage girl in the crowd before, me smiling directly at me. I thought to myself; “now this is going to be a really fine day.” I actually have California girls staring at me and smiling. Yep! California is the place I’ll spend the rest of my life; eternal life will have to be put on hold for a few years.

It soon became my turn to speak, so I stood and approached the podium. As I spoke, I noticed that the California teen was talking to yet another local beauty, and the best part was that they were both looking right at me. Man! California certainly lived up to it’s reputation.

I finished my speech, turned around and returned to my seat and as I sat, facing a congregation of about 300 people, I saw a quick flash of white coming from somewhere in my lap. I looked down, only to find that my zipper was still in the down position from the previous trip to the restroom. There were still more speakers to be heard, so the only thing I could do was to zip my pants in front of the now giggling teens and the rest of the congregation.

So much for studly Bob and King Kong! Those California girls quickly transformed from secret admirers to a source of devastating embarrassment. To this day, 37 years later, I never go into a public setting without checking my zipper. I’ve even had people look at me sort of bemused for that, so the humiliation lives on, but my zipper will always be at it’s appropriate position before the public sees me.

Finally, we'll end today with a good, old-fashioned sitcom moment from Sarah O'Leary

Since the age of 7, I have been a documented sleepwalker. Living alone in a NYC West Village slumlord tenement walk up at 25 years of age, I awoke to the sounds of my steel door slamming shut. I was on the wrong side, and stark naked. After pondering my near future for a few moments, I walked down 3 flights of stairs, out the back door and to an adjoining gay neighbor's garden apartment in the building next door. After some playful banter, he agreed to throw clothes to me and let me in. I can only imagine how many apartments looked down into that courtyard that night to see my display. WHOA.

Your humiliation, not mine

2008-12-11T15:52:00.000-08:00

Here on the my "main" blog, there haven't been a ton of submissions for the Great Easy Fiend Humiliation Contest, but over at Easy Fiend, Open Salon Edition, the kids are going wild. Over the next week, I'll be posting several for your cringing pleasure.

Mary over at Boulder Musings met her ultimate humiliation at the hands of Richard Dawson on Family Feud. Click here to find out how.

Melinda at Melinda's Meanderings discovered her lowest moment while smacking down a stranger with bad pants. To read more, click here.

And Irma Arkus, who interviewed me earlier this year for her show HiSciFi, posted her humiliating moment as a comment on my blog.

Last year I decided to try and get in shape. Aquafit was the name of the game: you sweat in water, which if you're not into sweating, sounds great.

I dug out this old bathing suit that I haven't worn since high school (and that's been a while). It's sheerness of fabric, eaten away from years of chlorine, sunshine and saltwater, warned me of its short life span. This conclusion turned into a mental note, and then shoved as far as the Wailing Wall. In other words, it disappeared.

I worked out. And my sweaty presence was met with meek, polite smiles, which, if you're in Canada is somehow always an appropriate response to *any* situation.

At the end of a session, I placed my hand on my hip, only to realize that my bottom, my red, firm, well-chlorinated bottom was bare. I was naked!!! IN THE WORST POSSIBLE WAY!

So...the question that remains is: did the bathing suite tore during that particular class? Or perhaps, and more likely, I've been "exercising" bare-bottomed for days already...while everyone else just kept on smiling.

Frankly, I would have been proud to have this happened to me.

Keep the entries coming! Please!

The Great Easy Fiend Humiliation Contest

2008-12-10T06:19:00.000-08:00

On a pleasant spring night in 1997, at the National Theatre in Melbourne, Australia, I experienced the most humiliating moment of my life under the withering gaze of the bastard James Ellroy.

Sandie and I were at the theatre to hear Ellroy read from his book American Tabloid. It was around the time the movie based on L.A. Confidential was all the buzz, so several hundred hipsters had gathered this evening to see the man in all his "Daddy-o" coolness.

Ellroy was on fire that evening. If you've ever heard him talk, you know that he is the living embodiment of his books, quick with cutting jabs and constantly throwing down hard-boiled slang. A living, breathing film noir private dick. Within minutes of the author taking the stage, I'd already lost track of how many times he said, "Off the record, on the QT and very hush-hush."

After he finished reading, there was a Q&A session. So that he could hear us fans on the upper level, they set up a microphone.

This was a problem.

In my world, microphones in front of crowds are a bad thing. If I see one, I have a pathological desire to talk into it, in much the same way I have a pathological desire to breath. My attention-starved inner child screams for me to say something, anything into that mic. It convinces me that people will laugh and cry at my wit. They'll love me, forever. Sometimes, it works. Most of the time, not so much.

I have since learned to control these urges. But at the time, I still hadn't figured out that when subjects of the Queen pay $40 bucks to hear a world-renown author speak, they are not impressed by some American jackass trying to turn the Q&A section of the program into open mic night at the Improv.

I didn't even have a question in mind as I lunged to the front of the line, certain that whatever I blurted out would be wildly entertaining. And, in a way, it was. I grabbed that mic and said to James Ellroy, in front of 781 Australians and my soon-to-be wife, "Hey, hey, Daddy-o! What's shakin'?"

Silence. Australians are not a forgiving people and, apparently, neither is James Ellroy. He stared at me, coldly. I could actually hear the wind blowing across the seats. If there were tumbleweeds Down Under, one would have blown down the aisle.

After about 385 years of silence, I cleared my throat and tried to piece together a slightly more coherent query. He answered curtly. I found my seat as everyone in the National Theatre stared at me, save one person, Sandie, who slumped down and covered her eyes in shame.

I blog about my humiliation almost daily. It doesn't bother me. The James Ellroy night, however, bothers me to this day. It's a story I never tell at parties. Getting my nose broken during prom or accidentally making sexual advances towards my kid's preschool teacher can be humiliating, but in a wacky, slapstick sort of way. I don't know why, but this just felt like a sickening punch in the gut.

Here's the contest part if you decided to skip my little story.

So there you go, my soul laid bare. Now, it's your turn. I'd like you to tell me about your most humiliating moment. Either add it as a comment, email it or blog about it and send me a link.

For this contest, I've enlisted a celebrity guest. David Nadelberg, the founder of Mortified, will be helping me pick the winners. If you're not familiar with Mortified, it's a project in which people unearth their worst adolescent writing and share it with the world. Working on the various Mortified books, multimedia projects and stage shows over the years has made David a true connoisseur of humiliation. You're in good hands.

(How about that for a plug, Dave?)

The winner of this contest will receive my 1995, Australian edition of American Tabloid. As you can see from this photo, it has not been autographed by the bastard James Ellroy. I brought it with me to Jimmy's gig so he'd sign it, but Sandie and I ended up fleeing from the theatre in disgrace before that part of the evening.

In honor of Mortified, the second place winner will receive a totally awesome eighties mix CD, assembled by me and vetted by David.

Good luck, Daddy-o!

Technically, Lord Vader should have been in front

2008-12-09T15:58:00.000-08:00

Here's a great photo from the Adventures of Accordion Guy blog, taken by Miss Fipi Lele.

Talking to a shrink in my WGA column this month

2008-12-09T09:04:00.000-08:00

This month in my Writers Guild of America website column Technically Speaking, I spoke with psychiatrist Dr. Glen Gabbard about how Hollywood portrays psychotherapy.

If you dabble in creative writing, it's worth a read because Dr. Gabbard talks a lot about the tricky balance between responsibility and entertainment that every fiction writer faces.

As much as Dr. Glen Gabbard would like to see Hollywood portray psychiatric disorders more realistically, he’s the first to explain why they can’t. “Psychotherapy ain’t showbiz,” he explains. “You could do a documentary about a psychotherapist treating a patient and be completely accurate and the audience would be bored to death, so you have to jazz it up a bit.”

I really dig doing this column because it's so easy for a scribe to bury himself in his little writerly world. He can forget that he's actually writing about other people in other walks of life. Every interview is an eye-opener for me.

All the Accordion MP3s you can eat

2008-12-06T06:32:00.000-08:00

MaryRuth over at the Where's the Bubbler? blog has alerted us that Let's Polka is featuring an "Accordion Advent Calender." Every day until Christmas, they're posting a new accordion MP3. And not just holiday music. We're talking The Pogues and junk.

MaryRuth, you're my squeezebox Santa Claus, baby.

The Book of the Dead, mate

2008-12-05T06:00:00.000-08:00

Sandie's dad bought this pillow when he was visiting us in Melbourne years ago. It totally grosses me out for two reasons. First, it looks like someone fashioned a koala fur pillow, without bothering to alert the koala.

Second, it reminds me of the Necronomicon from the Evil Dead movies. For some reason, my readership nosedives whenever I mention The Evil Dead, but I need to call them like I see them.

SkyMall, a gift from the heavens.

2008-12-04T06:48:00.000-08:00

Until this weekend, in all the hundreds of hours I'd flown, I'd never once read the SkyMall catalogue tucked between the inflight magazine and the barf bag in my seat pocket. I had, however, read Sky Maul, a parody of the publication created by my friend Rob's comedy troupe. That, I found hilarious -- so hilarious, in fact, that it compelled me to check out the real thing on our flight home from New Mexico.

SkyMall is truly a thing of great beauty. Never in my life have I simultaneously discovered so many things I can't live without that I didn't previously even know existed. Much like antibiotics, Tivo and high-fiber cereal, I can already scarcely fathom what life was like before I read this catalogue.

Here's just a sample of what they sell. And yes, these are all real.

Wait, scratch that. I already have gravity defying boots.

Everything in the first half of SkyMall starts with "the," I suppose as to differential from other Hypnotic Jellyfish Aquariums on the market.

So, if anyone out there is trying to figure out what to buy me this holiday season, I've just done you a solid.

(Note to my parents: That was sarcasm, Mom and Dad. Please don't buy truck antlers for our Prius. Even if you did, Sandie wouldn't let me put them on.)

The Dark Knight likes his cerveza, apparently.

2008-12-03T06:16:00.000-08:00

This abandoned Batman costume was in front of a Mexican bar and restaurant we ate at called My Brother's Place in Las Cruces last week. It made me sad, as though the Caped Crusader had just given up his obsessed notions of justice, stripped off his gear and gone inside for a Margarita.

I made a point of not going into the bar section because I didn't want to deal with the disillusionment that would come from seeing Bruce Wayne in his y-fronts, sitting on a stool and doing tequila shots.

Dick Cheney v. Mahatma Ghandi

2008-12-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

Roy Hobbs, the winner of the Easy Fiend "Who wrote the sewer note" contest, was pretty vague about which superhero he wanted drawn for him, so I riffed off his Ben Kingsley story and came up with Super Ghandi.

The runner-up, Tom Cordle, won a supervillain drawing. He asked for a mix between Hitler and Dick Cheney. Because those two as slightly synonymous, I nixed Adolph and added Marvel Comic's Modok, one of the weirdest looking villains I know of.

Thanks, again, to everyone who wrote in.

Black, Studded, Leather Belt Buying for Dummies

2008-12-01T06:44:00.000-08:00

Having narrowly survived New Mexico, I had an opportunity to get a little shopping done on Sunday. Like most Americans, shopping is something I'm very good at. But unlike most Americans, I'm extremely lousy at owning. At times, even the most inconsequential of items, CDs, fashion accessories or action figures, can lead to massive buyer's remorse. Yet, I continue to buy.

Recently, my black, studded, leather belt broke. This weekend seemed the perfect opportunity to replace it. I'm not really the black, studded, leather belt type, but everyone needs a little rock and roll in their wardrobe. It helps during those occasions when you just need to feel bad-ass. I'm not the only guy who thinks like this. Sandie travels a lot with her work and she's seen a few very normal-looking guys removing their black, studded, leather belts at airport security. It's like the suburban, mild-mannered version of having a Prince Albert.

As luck would have it, the punk rock clothing store in Hermosa Beach, Re:Style, was having a post-Thanksgiving, 20% off everything sale. In truth, a true punk rock store would never have a post-Thanksgiving, 20% off everything sale, but I'm not a true punk rocker, so it's a good match.

Normally, I'm old school when it comes to my bad-ass fashion choices, but the French, bourgeois punk woman behind the counter talked me into a snazzy, diamond-configuration, black, studded, leather belt. It made sense at the time; I thought I might shake things up a bit -- but the moment I got out the door, it hit me. "Holy shit, this belt isn't punk rock, it's glam rock. I want to be bad-ass. This belt is... fancy. It's all wrong."

For some reason, I didn't just go back inside. Instead, I went home. By the time I got there, I had practically lost half my hair due to stress. I marched into the living room, where my wife and daughter were on the couch watching Dora the Explorer. I lifted up my shirt to reveal the belt and asked, "What do you think?"

Sandie's eyes did this thing where they widen because she thinks I've done something foolish. Then she quickly regained her composure and said, "I think it's a fine belt."

I knew she was lying. I pressed her. She repeated her affirmation. I told her I got a good price on it therefore she should tell me if it was lame. In retrospect, I'm not sure of the logic here but, again, it made sense at the time.

Finally, she said, "Look, if you're going to to wear a belt like that, you might as well wear a belt like that. It's rock and roll; you're fine."

Mildly calmed, I went upstairs and looked at the belt in the mirror for a couple minutes. It did have tons of attitude, but it was totally glam. Bad-ass, but fancy bad-ass, like David Bowie or The New York Dolls. I didn't know if I could get away with it. I needed more validation.

I went back downstairs, telling Sandie that I could try to exchange the belt for a more conservative punk rock belt. She started to talk, but my daughter interrupted. "Daddy!" she barked. "Mommy said she liked the belt. I like the belt. Okay?"

That ended the conversation. I went upstairs to stew. I think I'll probably return the belt tomorrow. Anyone who needs to be talked off the ledge by a four-year-old clearly isn't bad-ass enough to pull an accessory like this off.

I'm the idiot-in-law

2008-11-27T05:58:00.000-08:00

I'm reporting from Las Cruces, New Mexico. We're spending Thanksgiving with Sandie's dad, Paul, with whom I have a special relationship. Within fifteen minutes of meeting him for the first time, I fell down his stairs. Within thirty minutes, I had accidently set off his smoke alarm. This pretty much set the tone for the next 17 years.

He picked us up from the airport in his new BMW this morning. Within 30 seconds of climbing in, I casually pushed a button on his dashboard and the CD changer magazine shot out of his glove box and hit me in the chest. It was a new speed record for me in terms of doing something stupid in front of Paul.

To make matters worse, if Paul doesn't like a conversation, he just stops talking. This is a recipe for awkwardness when combined with someone prone to nervous babbling like, for example, me.

On the way home, Paul pointed out a plot of land that used to be a Native American burial ground. Some guy built a house on it. Personally, I find this abhorrent on so many levels, but instead of launching into a diatribe on cultural sensitivity, I opted to crack wise, snorting, "Wow, I'd never do that because, you know. Poltergeist."

Paul did his best to mask his vague look on contempt. As far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. And yet, I soldiered on, now feeling even goofier than I did with the six-pack of CDs in my lap. "You know, I almost bought a hearse in high school," I mused, "but then decided against it because, well, the whole dead people in the trunk thing. Creepy!"

There wasn't much to add for the rest of the drive.

I'll try to write on Friday, but I don't know if it's going to happen. I'm fighting for my life here.

Why can't I have the same Jennifer Garner dream that the other boys have?

2008-11-26T06:05:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, I dream movies.

The first part of these dreams are always great. I just lie back and let the story unfold as an amused spectator along for the ride. But inevitably, right in the middle of the action, the dream turns lucid. I suddenly get control and have to decide what happens next.

While you might like this idea, for me, it's a pain in the ass. I've done no research, no character breakdowns, no fleshing out of the second-act low-point, nothing. Sure, I'm a writer, but it takes time to come up with this stuff. Furthermore, I spend all day making crap up. At the very least, I'd like to be able to relax during my resting hours.

Last night, for example, I dreamt a Jason Statham movie. (He's the English guy from Transporter, Crank, Transporter 2, Crank 2, Transporter 3, etc.) The gist of the plot involved Jason going to some big, bad drug lord's compound to kick ass. This was no huge leap for my subconscious to come up with. It's a fairly standard motif in every Jason Statham movie, ever.

Once he's in the compound, Jason easily beats up a series of Nazi-themed hooligans. He then meets his match when he encounters a pair of beautiful, brunette bikini babes, one of whom is Jennifer Garner, lounging by the pool. The ladies turn out to be Buddhist ninjas. Epic battle ensues. This isn't a standard motif for Jason Statham movies, but it should be.

At this point, my subconscious suddenly called it a night and left me at the helm. As Jason and the ninjettes duked it out in this weird kind of film loop, I had no idea what should happen next. Actually, I wouldn't have minded this because, like most men, I could watch bathing suit beauties do martial arts until the cows come home, but my subconscious had ordered a costume change shortly before quitting time, so the women were fighting in loose fitting black ninja gear with their faces covered and prayer beads dangling around their waists. I was so flustered that I didn't even have the good sense to put them back in their bikinis. I woke up a minute after that and stared at the ceiling for an hour, annoyed in a way that only the pre-VCR/DVD/Tivo generation can understand, like when the power went out in the middle of Matt Houston and you had that sinking feeling that this particular episode might never, ever be on again and you'd never, ever find out who murdered the philandering town sheriff.

If you have any idea how this dream should have ended, please let me know. I'm not giving anything away this time, but if they ever create an Internet Movie Database for my subconscious, I'll list you as a co-writer, maybe even associate producer.

Sexy Time on Facebook

2008-11-25T07:07:00.000-08:00

My friend Denise has a gift for writing unintentional double entendres on her Facebook status updates. Her best one so far has been:

"Denise is gonna do some mounting when she gets home ... before going to photo class tonight."

Although she caught all kinds of crap for that, it turns out she's not the only one on the internet to talk like a 1970s British sitcom. Here's what some of the people I know were doing this weekend, according to Facebook.

Robyn is going to the grocery store with Jack.
Molli is already feeling pretty thankful!
Jeffrey just got back from the little dragon show.
Jerome wanted to give the dog a bath this morning, but someone wasn't having it.
Dave is getting his Jack Bauer on.
Dwight welcomes his new friends!
Brendan is taking apart his Hammond organ.
Morgan is coming down the Mountain...
Douglas is back in Kafkaville, where it's cold and icy.
Jodie is enjoying a pedicure before the Panthers Game.
Molli is really happy about the camera, but really bummed about the ice cream. (Not a euphemism, but oddly sexual.)
Melissa is wondering if Gregg lit the candle afterall?
Steve is eating eggs and bacon before getting into the shaping room.
Kelly is now greasy on the inside.
Eric is getting an early start putting up xmas decorations.
Mat is going to a shooting range.

By comparison, my sex life doesn't have the zing that I thought it did.

The winner of the "Who wrote the sewer note?" contest

2008-11-24T07:56:00.000-08:00

Holding a contest like this was a lot more stressful than I thought it would be. So many people put so much thought into their answers. There were several good responses here on the regular blog, but the readers at Open Salon absolutely went bananas. Tolstoy needed Napoleon invading Russia to inspire War and Peace, yet it just took you guys a lousy, misspelled note to write equally epic opuses. Hats off.

What made the choice even harder is that I'm worried people might get mad and stop reading the blog if they don't win. When I expressed this concern to Sandie, she immediately leapt at the opportunity to judge. She also advised me that if anyone belly-ached, she'd gladly smack them down.

So, with no more delay, the winner is Roy Hobbs from Open Salon. Here's what he wrote:

“But Mr. Kingsley, when I talked to him last night , he said he would have the pages this afternoon.”

“I SAID, I needed it today. This is a million dollar a day budget, I cannot shoot without pages!.”

When the courier entered the room, the tiny lady behind the desk let out a squeal, “Oh thank God!” and she ran toward the fuming actor just as he was leaving the room. “Here Mr Kingsley….the script pages are right here!”

The actor snatched it from her like a pirate with a treasure map and closed his door. But before the poor woman could collapse with relief in her chair, the big oak door swung open.

“What is this CRAP?! This is a delicate scene between a child going through chemo and her golden retriever, not Behind the Green Door. Listen to this line, “I know daddy’s been naked with Aunt Margorie.”? That’s my plot twist? Is he insane? I’m getting money from Disney for Christ sakes! Get me Bruster on the phone RIGHT NOW!”

“But he’s writing, he never takes calls when he’s writing.”

The actor let his next words out with barely a breath. “I -want- his -address.”

------------------------

Maybe this is the smallest agency downtown, but hey, it happens thought Norm Stine. He was now visably shaking with Ben Kingsley just inches away.

“What do you know about Bruster next door? He won’t answer the door, he in there?”

“I…think so..Is there anything I can help you with?” Norm Stine shifted slightly, deflating, on the balls of his feet.

“I need him. Right now.”

“Well, when I go out for sandwiches, sometimes a slip him a note, under the door…”

“Well…paper?”

“Yes, yes, sir Mr. Kingsley.” Norm Stine torn off a blank office memo and started to hand it to the actor, but decided to black out his name printed on top. Kingsley looked pretty pissed, he didn’t need to be connected in this, Bruster occasionally still lent him money.

Nobody’s going to hand me this kind of garbage thought the actor as he pounded on the notepaper, where was his mind? This guy better get me what I want, and now.

“Did you fall into the sewer yesterday?
WRITE
bak

Let me know your favorite superhero, buddy, and the drawing will be on the way. If you'd like to read more of Roy's wry comic stylings, here's his blog.

I'd also like to give credit to Tom Cordle for his answer, a Charlie Kaufman-inspired, meta-take on The Honeymooners. Tom was the only person who actually posted his answer on his blog (and told me about it), so here's that link I promised.

For anyone still reading -- that would be Roy, Tom and Sandie -- I'll be doing this again soon, so stay tuned.

How my show went last night

2008-11-22T08:15:00.000-08:00

For those checking in to see how my spoken-word debut last night at WordPlay went, 24 hours before the show, I caught a cold.

2 hours before the show, I got caught up in narcissistic babbling to my wife and only allowed 45 minutes for the 30 minute trip across town to the show space. Those familiar with Los Angeles traffic know how stupid this is.

10 minutes before I was to go onstage, I did the old turn-the-faucet-on-too-fast-and-spray-water-all-over-my-crotch trick while washing my hands.

Then I got onstage and...

Things went well. I mean, people laughed in the right spots and well-wishing strangers warmly patted me on the back afterwards (despite explicit instruction in the show program not to touch me) so I must not have sucked.

Afterwards, I went out for drinks with a bunch of friends who attended the show. Frankly, I was amazed at how many people I know showed up last night. Anyone delusional enough to try a career as messed-up as screenwriting knows that, at times, you feel more alone than you ever thought possible. You also become acutely aware that everyone wants something and the only way you'll succeed is to convince them that you're the one who can give it to them.

But last night with my friends -- some who I've known for decades, some for weeks -- alone was the very last thing I felt. And the only thing these people wanted was to be there for me.

Sorry, schadenfrauden fans, sometimes even I can't find the problem with a situation.

Pitching Bruce Willis, more or less

2008-11-21T08:40:00.000-08:00

I had a phone meeting yesterday with an executive at Bruce Willis' production company, Willis Brothers Films.

Phone meetings are always difficult because I can't read the other party's reaction to what I'm saying if I can't see their face. Furthermore, I've had a man-crush on Bruce Willis since high school. These two factors combined to increase my usual Hollywood meeting awkwardness exponentially. I was a babbling fool, even by my exacting standards.

At one point, I realized my pitch sounded exactly like the The Whole Nine Yards, a project BW might avoid given he kind of already made that movie. I quickly rearranged the elements of the story to make them more Bruce-intriguing, only to discover I was now pitching Die Hard: The Comedy.

By the grace of God and certainly not by my skills as a pitchman, the executive still agreed to read a script. Next time we talk, I think I'll pitch him Armageddon: The Musical.

Contest update

2008-11-20T18:25:00.000-08:00

I'm going to run this contest through the weekend - and then let Sandie pick the winner. I do this because if someone doesn't like the results, they can argue with her. Lord have mercy on their souls.

I'm running this at my Open Salon blog as well, if you want to see some more answers.

Mock the illiterate guy and win something useless!

2008-11-20T06:39:00.000-08:00

I found this near an empty lot while walking Bruce the Dog the other morning.

I've spent many subsequent Bruce the Dog walks trying to come up with a possible backstory for this note, but nothing really good comes to mind. I can't get past the fact that this person knew how to spell "sewer" -- a word I frequently botch -- but couldn't get the word "back." Also, why did he feel compelled to scratch his name out at the top of the note?

I'm turning the task over to you. Whoever comes up with the best yarn gets a truly awful superhero drawing -- custom sketched and colored on the finest lined notebook paper by me! Either post your response in a comment here or email me a URL to your blog. I'll link bak to you here on Easy Fiend.

Garbage can graffiti in Griffith Park

2008-11-19T08:30:00.000-08:00

The hell that is a luxury car owner's life

2008-11-18T04:31:00.000-08:00

Last night, I passed my neighbor Colleen's house on my regular Bruce the Dog walk. She was checking her mail as her little, white, cotton-ball dog, Salem, yapped beside her. Her garage was open and I couldn't help but notice that she owned two identical silver BMWs -- or at least they had the same numbers on the back. I commented thusly. She chastised me, pointing out that one was a 2003 and the other was a 2008. How the hell did I not notice the difference?

I explained that at this stage in my life, I don't care much about cars. They're four tires holding up an engine and a few seats that you take to the mechanic periodically.

Colleen replied that she used to feel that way, but she's seen the light recently. The reason for this is that her new 2008 BMW doesn't have the "sports package" her 2003 does and she can totally tell the difference. The 2008 just doesn't take the curves as well. It's awful.

There was a brief silence. Bruce sniffed Salem, probably pondering what it would be like to play fetch with a cotton-ball dog instead of a tennis ball. Then I said, "Wow. Sucks to be you. One of your beemers isn't as good as the other."

The conversation could have gone a couple ways at that point. Fortunately, Colleen realized that her automotive assessment might have deserved my sarcasm, so it ended on an up-note.

I don't even like to wash my hands!

2008-11-17T04:23:00.000-08:00

I found a site called Sanity Score where you can take a twenty minute quiz to determine how crazy you are. To my surprise, I turned out to be "in general good health," with one exception. On a scale from zero to 100, zero being fine and 100 being bananas, I scored 69 in the "Obsessions/Compulsions" section. In fact, they recommend I seek treatment, which is ridiculous because I have a lot of things wrong with me, but OCD isn't one of them.

Frankly, I'm so unconcerned that I wasn't even going to blog about it, but I couldn't come up with anything else to write about and I really like to have fresh Easy Fiend content every Monday. If I don't, I get really stressed out and can't think about anything else.

My ten minutes of living hell - Live! Onstage!

2008-11-14T10:00:00.000-08:00

I mentioned a couple days ago that I'll be doing spoken-word at WordPlay next week. For those interested in what the hell that means, a person delivering a spoken-word monologue stands on a stage and reads a story to an audience from a script. Great monologists include Spalding Gray and David Sedaris. This American Life frequently features amazing comic monologues.

In my opinion, it's typically a writer's medium, much safer than stand-up comedy or acting, because you have that piece of paper as a protective filter. If all else fails, just read the script.

It's nothing like stand-up comedy, where the goal is, generally, to make people laugh as much as possible. Spoken word is more about telling a good story that should amuse people along the way. If stand-up is a sit-com, spoken word is a one-hour drama/comedy. If you didn't laugh every fifteen seconds during an episode of Scrubs, it probably sucked. But you might only laugh a couple times during Northern Exposure or Boston Legal and still consider it a good episode.

I understand this now. 24 hours ago, I did not, which is why I decided to test my WordPlay monologue at a stand-up comedy open-microphone being held at my friend's comic book shop. Normally, open mike organizers might red flag something like this, but these guys were as wet behind the ears as I am, so instead they accentuated my bad judgement by putting me last. After two hours of kinetic, wacky, stand-up comedy hi-jinx, I took the stage -- the back of a half-empty comic book shop at 10 PM on a Thursday night -- to read my ten-minute opus, Sock Monkey.

Sweet Jesus, it was a blood bath. I might as well have been doing shadow puppets at a convention for the blind. I've never heard silence like that. The woman who went before me did an joke about a couple Minnesotans who confront the devil. Her punch line was "Since Hell's frozen over, that must mean the Vikings won the Super Bowl!" and she got more laughs than I did. Although that's not saying much. The kindest thing anyone could say to me afterwards was "That was... nice."

There's a possibility that I'm making excuses for the fact that my monologue is just plain, flat bad, but for once, I don't think so. I knew this was a mistake the moment I took the stage, but I had committed. I couldn't just stop and run crying from the shop, even though every atom of my being suggested I do so. And this is why I've chosen spoken word instead of stand-up comedy. I had my paper filter, so I used it. I blocked out the silent crowd and just read my script, while perpetually reminding myself that I had better hair than anyone else in the room.

I pray next Friday goes a little better.

Denny Crane and me, blood brothers

2008-11-13T14:05:00.000-08:00

My kid's school is having a blood drive. Sadly, I went to college briefly in England, so the Red Cross does not allow me to donate. Their concern is that I may have contracted bovine spongiform encephalopathy from an undercooked British meat pie.

I'm disappointed that I can't fulfill my civic duty. I also miss the free Oreos and orange juice boxes. That said, I'm a big Boston Legal fan and I'm fairly certain my brain is rotting anyway, so it pleases me no end to tell people how I can't give blood because the American Red Cross thinks I have Mad-Cow Disease.

Still bummed about the cookies and juice, though.

My triumphant return to the stage

2008-11-12T15:31:00.000-08:00

The last time I took to the stage for any kind of genuine performance, it was my senior year of high school. I was Moonface Martin, the comic male lead in Laguna Hill High's presentation of Anything Goes. Now, twenty years later, there's this:

My monologue is based one of my more popular blog posts. I'm not going to ruin it for you by saying which one.

WordPlay is no Cole Porter musical, but hopefully it'll be entertaining.

More weird childhood art

2008-11-11T19:41:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since I posted an Easy Fiend "re-imagining" of my childhood art, so I figure now is as good of a time as any to alienate any new fans out there with some blatant weirdness.

This guy, Doda, was intended to be the central character in my seven-year-old sci-fi universe. As you can see, he is a rip-off of C3P0. I've tried to remedy that in my updated version.

"Doda" circa 1977

"Doda" circa 2008

By the way, if any of you want to take a stab at "re-imagining" one of my characters yourself, I'll gladly post it here. Come on, show the world what a real artist can do.

High Midnight's vampire lady

2008-11-10T15:57:00.000-08:00

Mary Lambert, who is attached to direct High Midnight, my Treasure Entertainment-optioned script, talked to MTV about the project the other day. Here's part of what she said.

“The female vampire is the center of the story,” Lambert said. “She’s the driving force. She’s from another country, but she looks like a young woman, in her early 30s at the oldest.” Right now, Lambert’s trying to find the right actress for the part.
“I’m looking for somebody who would be ready to be fairly outrageous in her portrayal,” Lambert said. “She has to be very sensual. She needs to be sexy but powerful and not afraid to play it that way. Sometimes female actors shy away from playing someone violent, or playing a villain. I’ve had that be an issue in films I wanted to do, because society and the industry punishes you for being ugly or brutal on camera, although men are rewarded for that.”
There are only a few actresses who can handle it, Lambert said, such as Angelina Jolie or Keira Knightley, so she’s trying to figure out who’s the next one to join that club: “They can be tough in a role and still be vulnerable, still be beautiful, and still maintain their star quality.”

I really admire Mary for having the chutzpah to throw out A-listers like that. It's pretty fun to imagine actors of that calibre as the characters I've written.

In case you're curious, when I write a script, I always have a specific person in mind. Sometimes, it's a contemporary actor. Other times, it's an actor from the past or an older actor during his prime. A couple times, it's just been people I know. Generally, I don't expect whoever I'm thinking of to be cast in what I'm writing. Although when Ted Raimi signed on to High Midnight, it was weird because he was the exact person I had in mind for Earl.

The reason I assign a real person to each character is that it helps me visualize scenes. Also, I typically write around thirty pages -- a third of the script -- before I really figure out who my characters are. Having a human placeholder in there helps me figure out how scenes might play out. ("What would Bruce Willis do in this situation?") Once I've nailed the characters, I usually go back and re-write those first pages.

Some of you might be asking who I had in mind for the characters in High Midnight. I'm not going to tell you because I don't want to make it a matter of public record. The screenwriter's opinion doesn't matter much in these situations, but believe me, if Angelina, Keira or another equally talented, smokin' hot actress wants to play Dallinferno, I'm going to look her right in the eye, or at least try to look her right in the eye, and tell her that she's the exact woman I had in mind for the role.

It's a little sad, but I don't even feel vaguely guilty admitting that.

The Butt Parade

2008-11-09T18:09:00.000-08:00

My friends Mike and Luis had a joint birthday party this Saturday. Despite the fact that they're both comic book writers, it was one of the truly hippest birthday shindigs I've ever been to, from the Miles Davis piped into the bathroom to the jam band in the living room to the fridge stocked with beer, wine and imitation butter.

Of course, that made me uncomfortable, but I soldiered on. At first, I loitered in the kitchen, doing my best to be charming. After a while, I'd had enough of A) standing and B) talking to people, so I grabbed a seat on the living room couch, in front of the band. It wasn't hard. The cool kids generally don't like having their line of vision at crotch level to the rest of a party, so most people were standing.

Mike and Luis were on the microphone, performing a drunken cover of Bill Withers' Use Me. They were hideous, yet, so funky. Their hubris was majestic. When I mangle a song in front of a crowd, it's maimed for life. But what these guys were doing was a thing of great beauty. Very cool, indeed.

Then some random dude, vying for a better view of the band, put his ass in my face.

There was a time in my life when I would have felt humiliated by being a couch potato at a hipster party staring down some guy's butt. Saturday night, however, it just seemed funny. I wasn't sitting there because I felt too awkward to dance or interact with people; I was sitting there because I was lethargic and asocial.

I pulled out my little Canon PowerShot and snapped a photo of the guy's ass, as well as the butt parade that followed him. A few people thought this was sort of funny and starting checking out my photos. For one, brief shining moment, I had managed to make being a cantankerous, lazy bastard into something hip. Mike and Luis had given me a birthday present.

Kiss Guitarist Ace Frehley dates Punk Rock Girl

2008-11-06T05:20:00.000-08:00

According to her tag, this doll's name is Verity, but when I bought her for my daughter a while ago, I renamed her Punk Rock Girl, in honor of the Dead Milkmen song by the same name:

Recently, Punk Rock Girl has acquired a stuffed animal entourage that includes a yellow duck, a small killer whale and a Cookie Monster finger puppet. They cruise around our upstairs in a white convertible Jeep on loan from Barbie.

Also in this clique is Kiss guitarist Ace Frehley or, more specifically, an Ace Frehley doll Santa brought last year for Christmas. I'm comfortable with the fact that Ace and Punk Rock Girl are dating, but I'm dismayed that he has been re-dubbed Punk Rock Boy. As I'm sure you know, Kiss is the antithesis of punk rock. You just can't call Ace Frehley a punk rocker; It's like referring to the Pope as a rabbi. But no matter how much I try to explain this to my daughter, no matter how many times I call him Hard Rock Boy, Glam Rock Boy or even Heavy Metal Boy, my pleading falls on deaf ears.

This particular attempt at ironic, hipster fatherhood has blown up in my face.