The Reel Deal and Other Bad Jokes
Friday, April 30, 2004
Title Wars: The Title Strikes Back
Installment 8 of "Nobody's Fool"
"Nobody's fool will now take your fortune." I put my hand on my money pouch. "As I whisper your fortune in your ear, fix it in your mind, for it shall surely come to pass in short order."
The dwarf hopped down from the table and trotted down the line, whispering hurriedly in each patron's ear. They frowned puzzledly.
I leaned towards Kahnrad. "I smell a blowoff. Also a rat...a dead one." We made our exit, unnoticed. We'd had practice. Plus we knew the back way.
In the alley outside, I looked through a peephole in the wall of the Dirtwater Fox. The dwarf sprang back onto the table.
"Pull back your eyelids, look in your purse. You have been victims of the Pickpocket Curse!" There was a deafening bang, and a column of smoke rose to the ceiling. When it cleared, a few astute observers noticed the door was ajar. With a roar, the crowd rushed outside.
I'm dropping a class that I don't want or need, woohoo! It's like trudging along and suddenly realizing you're carrying a great big rock in your backpack.
I met a very pretty young lady at my Dad's company barbeque. Redhead. We exchanged screen names. I hope to talk to her soon. You know, after I hunt down my second-grade teacher.
I probably will not have to pay for the damage done to my car, since I was hit and not the other way around.
Title Wars: A New Title
Installment 7 of "Nobody's Fool"
He came to a stop in the middle of one long table.
"Now, observe...I shall serenade you. With a song? Surely not, for my voice is poor, though I know many songs of dubious morals. A harp? My fingers are like wood. A horn? I can afford no horn.
No, I shall use this." The fool held up his hand, and a arrow shape of an oak leaf appeared in it. Placing it between his thumbs, he began to blow.
Expecting an assault upon my ears like that of a tortured duck, I was pleasantly surprised by a sound not unlike a master horn player's solo. The tune was plaintive, but not reedy; slow, but not boring.
There was silence. Then the crowd burst into enthusiastic applause, rattling the dishes and shaking dust from the rafters. The fool called out over the last of it.
In case any of you were concerned, the only injury I sustained in the accident was a nicked finger picking up the glass. I may have broken bones, but I ain't noticed 'em yet.
Saw Kill Bill Vol. 2. Good shit. Nice cinematography. Not as much action as the first, but what action it did have was pretty brutal. The scene with Daryl Hannah...this was everybody in the theater: "DAAAAMN!" Or the aproximate. Moon Pie or whatever the chinese dude's name was--he was fuckin' hilarious. Every time he stroked his beard or brushed it to one side he got a laugh. ...I don't feel like being detailed with it. I've got a paper to bullshit after this.
My handwriting has really gotten worse. I can't write in cursive anymroe, and my print is huge and sprawling. When I was in second grade, I had really pretty cursive, better than my teacher's. My teacher was named, I shit you not, Mr. Poindexter.
He was a pretty cool guy though. Young, just got his degree, and he had to deal with me. I had my very own spelling class, apart from the whole Lower School because I was the only person who read Orson Scott Card in second grade. Mr. Poindexter shaved his head once because the class (the lower school consisted of 12 kids) read 60 books in two months. I could have done it solo, definitely now if not then.
The other Lower School teacher was Mrs. Jones. She had an awesome body (what I can recall of it), shining black hair down to her read end, and full, red lips. I had a huge crush on her, which I manifested by constantly trying to annoy her. ...I should go back to that school and see if she still works there and if she wants to teach me anything else.
Thursday, April 29, 2004
Title Hard 3: With a Vengeance
Installment 6 of "Nobody's Fool"
The fool stopped dancing and strolled along the table. Suddenly, he whirled on a fat orc with nostrils the size of gold coins.
"You there! Do you pick your nose?"
The orc glanced guiltily about. "Huhh...no?"
"That's too bad. If you did, you might have found this!" The jester reached down (admittedly, not far) and pulled a scarf out of the orc's right nostril. It shimmered the sheer colors of silk. Valuable colors.
"Thanks, friend." The dwarf winked.
Stunned, the orc drove a fat finger into his nose and began rooting desperately.
The fool jigged merrily down the table, pulling a scarf from a collar there, a coin from an ear here, a minnow from a nostril there. Reaching the end, he back flipped into a series of handsprings, which he expanded to body twists and mid-air splits, jumping from table to table.
Got in a fender-bender today. Busted a headlight, bent my hood, and tore my bumper cover. 'S fucked up. The insurance should take care of it though. She reversed into me. I was following close, on the other hand.
Maybe more later, gotta go drop off the accident report with my Dad's PA.
Title Hard 2: Title Harder
Hoo boy, late post today. May I present to you...Installment 5 of "Nobody's Fool." Check prior posts, as usual.
Then a blur of bright color whizzed from the floor to the table, kicking aside plates and goblets without a care. I realized why I hadn't seen the jester before. He was a dwarf, and short even for one of his race.
An exceptionally lean and agile dwarf, by all evidence. Avoiding grabs for his feet, and wagging his rainbow-dyed beard roguishly, he began a merry jig, calling out all the while.
"Women of negotiable affection and not-so-gentlemen, goils and boils, prepare yourself for a spectacle the likes of which you have never seen and never will again!"
"Get out of here, you fool!" I barked. "You're going to die!"
The dwarf wagged a finger. "I'm nobody's fool, but even I can see that this crowd wouldn't hurt a fly!" Which was true, to an extent. There were too many flies to bother swatting.
The crowd of roughnecks laughed uproariously. I sat back, my humanitarian effort for naught, and waited expectantly for one of the dismemberings the Dirtwater Fox was famous for.
Did an awesome lighting setup today. Hung two 300w (w for watt) Peppers from the grid. These were the keylights for Derek and I, sitting side by side at a rectangular table. On the table was a mirror tile, intended to underlight me. Angled off of the grid was another mirror tile, and off to the side we hung a Tungsten Par. Thus, the light was that completely off to the side lit me from underneath. Ain't physics grand?
We rigged a 4'x8' bounce card (large white rectangle) at an angle on the grid. We punched a couple of 2K Redheads (small but powerful) into that, with blue gels over them, for some blue fill light. For a really intriguing effect, we put a mirror tile in a tray of water and bounced a 2K Mickey Mole off of it. Here's how it came together:
I sat at a table, pretending to construct a bullshit electrical device of some sort out of some zip cord, a voltage tester, and a 3-to-2 adapter. Derek knocks on the "door" off frame. I respond.
"Yeah, who is it?"
"It's me, man!"
"Yeah? What's the password?"
"Is it, uhhh, buttplug?"
"Close but no smoking cylindrical thing."
"Come on, man, let me in! I've got the food! Uh....beaver board!"
I got up, acknowleging the risque nickname of a particular grip rig as the password. I beckoned him in, hiding the lack of a door in shadow. Derek came in and sat down.
"Guess who I saw at the KFC, man? Ben Turney!" He referred to our Sound Operations teacher--the dry, boring one.
"You're shittin' me."
"Naw, man, I saw him! And he was totally different outside of class, man. He was all like, 'Word! Yo Derek, I want you to meet, uh, one of my honeys, I've got plenty,' and he had these girls with him that were just all over him and shit!"
"Naaawww..." I brought a couple of electrical components together. The key lights went out and the Par came on, just long enough to light up my face for an over-exposed moment, flicker, and go off, leaving us in blue moonlight and moonlight apparently reflecting off of the surface of a lake. We supposedly in a cabin.
"Let's go check the circuit breaker." We walked off screen.
"HOLY SHIT, IT'S BEN TURNEY AND HE'S BROUGHT SOME HOOKERS!"
Hey, it's improv. Whaddaya want?
On the summer productions--The first, "Tracer Bullet," is going to be an adaptation of a series of Calvin and Hobbes strips. I'm using a home video camera and my family as cast.
The fifteen minute production is tenatively titled "The Good, The Bad, and The Hairy." It concerns Jesus, Satan, and God granting interviews to the media.
The half-hour production is called "The Adventures of Sanitational Worker." It's an absurd superhero parody, written by my very good friend Jimmy. I've directed you to his xanga before.
The crowning glory, the hour-long production, concerns three friends (Moe, Larry and Curly for now) who decide to take revenge on an enemy of their's (Bastard for now), an absolute bastard, by each stealing something that's valuable to the enemy. The one guy steals Bastard's car, the other his pride/dignity/reputation, and the third his girl, with a heartwarming speech.
Since I intend to screen these productions for money (I don't think I'll be able to make a profit) I'll need a soundtrack with music I have permission to use. Thus, I am taking submissions. You can send me links to downloadable MP3's, or you can IM me and send via AIM. If you know any musicians who might be interested, let them know please.
Themes include victory, love, defeat, good, evil, and divinity. Subjects include those things mentioned above and also paintball (paintball especially), kicking ass, getting one's ass kicked, being/feeling cool, driving, hell, heaven, the crucifixion (however you spell it), being a superhero, fighting crime, now I'm just reaching.
Anything that my descriptions inspire in you, submit it. Also, remixes or remakes of songs that would have relevance are appreciated. Particularly "It's Good To Be A Gangsta," because God needs a theme, and The Imperial March from Star Wars, or something very much like it--The Imperial March is called for in the script. But if your tune is just rockin', submit it. I'm not going to be picky about genre, but to give you an idea of my musical tastes I'm a big ACDC fan. Also The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys, The Beastie Boys, Cake, and Queens of the Stone Age.
Thank you and good night.
Tuesday, April 27, 2004
We interrupt this program for an important message...
Just in case y'all were wondering, the hiatus is anticipated to begin May 11. The projected date of return is May 27. The Reel Deal would like to apologize in advance for this outage of service, which will hopefully be a not-entirely-barren silence. If I could just figure out how to make delayed posts...maybe I'll set up a bunch in advance and ask a trusted friend to post them.
*EDIT* Friend found. There won't be "what's happening to me right now" posts. If I could see into the future, I'd be financing my own films. There might be a few by way of borrowing a computer with internet connection and phoning posts home. Mostly it'll be filler material--stories and essays I've written already.
A blog is a beast that must be constantly fed.
Installment 4 of "Nobody's Fool" (check prior posts for earlier parts of the story)
We surveyed the crowd. Sooner or later, a fight would break out. Neither Kahnrad nor I felt like participating, so we'd arrest whoever was lying on the floor at the end of the brawl.
The two long tables in the center of the room, never premium seating, were packed. Burly orcs, dwarves, humans and hobgoblins jostled for space on the warped benches. Multiple puncture wounds to the fundament by splinters were damn near inevitable. At least for thin human skin. That's why Kahnrad and I always used our so-called Special Detective guardsmen’s badges to get the better seats. Plus we could spot trouble-makers easier. Not that it took a trained eye to do that at the Fox.
The brassy note of what seemed to be a bugle became audible over the hubbub. Gradually, the room became silent as the unseen bugler completed an energetic version of "Wanderin' Fool." Every head in the room turned to regard the source of the music, excepting those that had already passed out on the floor.
I had Sound Operations today. Just like last Teusday, except we were back with our regular teacher. I think I've reached the limit of my patience with him. He is a horrible teacher, very dry. I like him as a person and on set, but we're usually not on set when we're in his class, in fact never, because after all we are in class, not on set...if you see where I'm going with this.
The material is kind of boring too, though I think I'm getting the hang of it. Like, holy shit, I could throw a bunch of technical terms out, and know what they mean. I did actually learn something in this class...I don't like it, but I learned something from it.
Spare me the "learn something from everything" cliche. I know it's true, but maybe there are some things you don't WANT to learn? For instance, if you committed seppeku--which you would accomplish by taking the short killing sword, the Wakizashi, inserting it into the lower right corner of your abdomen, wrenching it across and then upwards, you would learn what your intestines look like. Me, I'll pass. Learning about sound equipment was OK though.
Thank god next week is the final. By which I mean both exam and class.
Summer Production and Budgeting Schedule
May 28: Begin "Tracer Bullet" analog production
June 5: Finish "Tracer Bullet" Analog version
June 6: Purchase Macintosh $2740
June 7: Begin fifteen minute production. Begin “Tracer Bullet” edit.
June 9: Finish "Tracer Bullet" edit
June 19: Finish fifteen minute production. Purchase lighting equipment $300.
June 20: Begin half-hour production.
July 10: Finish half-hour production. Purchase DV camera $400.
July 11: Begin hour-long production.
August 14: Finish hour-long production. Purchase DVD-Rs, labels, jewelcases $100.
Total budget: $4000. Surplus available for props/makeup/costuming or to cover surplus on purchases.
My executive producer, i.e. my dad, agreed to these terms. He's fronting the money. He wanted me to sign a contract, though. In its entirety:
The Carrot-and-Stick Contract
The signee will obtain a summer job. If the signee does not complete the Tracer Bullet production, the fifteen-minute production, and the half-hour production, the signee will lose the Macintosh.
Depending on quality, the signee will recieve these bonuses:
I, Justin Kuhn, being of somewhat sound mind and body, agree to these terms.
Looks like there'll be some interesting blogs this summer.
At the end of the semester, my family is going to Utah. We'll be traveling by train. Then we'll get a rental car and drive back home. We'll stop and see the sights, including the Grand Canyon and Sante Fe (which apparently has several art galleries, I suspect an ulterior motive on Dad's part). Blogging will be erratic, but I'll try and update whevever I can get near a computer with internet access.
Monday, April 26, 2004
The Lord of the Titles: Return of the Title
Installment 3 of "Nobody's Fool" (check prior posts)
"Shove off," a burly orc said belligerently. I pushed him off his chair.
"I meant, you shove yourself off!" he bellowed wittily, staggering to his feet and taking a swing at me. He missed, the worse for drink. My foot happened to be in his way, and he went down for the count. I hauled a goblin out of the booth by the scruff of his neck and tossed him aside. I sat down in the orc's place and Kahnrad took the goblin's.
I surveyed the three still sitting at the table.
"Lookee here, Kahnrad," I said. "Alcohol and gambling. Seems illegal."
Kahnrad shook his head. "No, Eric, but the loaded dice are definitely illegal. Guess we'll have to haul this lot in," he said. "Unless of course they get away."
The chairs were suddenly empty.
"Oh well," I said. "We'll have to just sit here and wait to arrest somebody." I snagged a passing bargirl. "A pair of your finest sour, watered-down ales, if you would." The bargirl growled and bared a set of yellow tusks, which I took to be an affirmative.
And now a return from fiction--(let me say that Maceman is like me in no way. I am not broad-shouldered, blond, or capable of scaring people out of their seats)
--I did some dramatic acting today. Sat in a chair in a dark room, it was apparently raining outside due to the light we shone through a sheet of fiberglass, which we pouring water down through plastic bags with holes in them...if you can picture that from my run-on sentence. I planted some droplets of water around my eyes and acted concerned. I was told I did a good job.
Have you heard about this coconut milk thing? I don't get it. How can a coconut give milk? I ask you...where are a coconut's nipples!? My mom told me how the coconut milk providers take the meat out of the nut and press it, but all that tells me is that they don't know where the nipples are either.
If we could just locate the nipples in life, we'd all be better off.
Sunday, April 25, 2004
Lord of the Titles: The Two Titles
Installment 2 of "Nobody's Fool."
"Hey baby, wanna rumble in my jungle?" Something rubbed up against my leg. I looked down from my considerable height of six foot plus. It had a mustache and lips that could deep-kiss a moose. I wasn't sure if it was female, or even human, so I took my best shot.
"Sorry...I don't date monkeys." I flashed my badge. The monkey scampered. Even for monkeys, soliciting a guardsman is a crime punishable by the guardsman not paying.
Kahnrad drummed his fingers on his billy club. “Heads up, Maceman. Somebody’s tryin’ to move in on our territory.” He nodded in the direction of the group occupying the table we customarily sat at. I smirked.
"Hello there! What are you sitting at our table for?" I boomed jovially.
A motley collection of toughs looked up from their drinks and dice game. A few seemed well on their way to a good drunk, judging by the fashion in which they were trying to pinpoint which image of me was the real me.
Lord of the Titles: The Fellowship of the Title
I acted in a friend's movie today, an adaptation of "Beowulf" set post-apocalypse, which was supposed to explain why so much of the movie was ass. He was shooting it for an English class, so it was not particularly professional. It was fun, however. I played "Guard #48" in one scene. I wore a burlap tunic that not only made me look like an asshat, it also itched like the itch that occurs about fifteen minutes after sex. I don't understand how people ever wore burlap. Maybe that was why they fought so much in the Dark Ages.
In the next scene I played Guard #4. I wore a beekeeper's helmet, sans net, and the gloves. I had to explain to my drunken king (Tagline: "I'm the king!") that the monster had killed one guard and chased the other one away. My friend's friend played the corpse, lying in a very uncomfortable position with intestines spilling out of his chest that were in reality deli ham bloodied with corn syrup and food coloring.
"So he's dead?"
"And you're dead."
"But you just said he was dead!"
"No, he ran away."
"You're dead, I'm the king!"
"Fuck you, king."
First installment you'll see of a short fantasy story I wrote a while back. It concerns a pair of unscrupulous town guards (Eric "The Maceman" and Kahnrad) and a mischievous dwarven pickpocket.
The Dirtwater Fox was hopping tonight. At least, it was as hoppy as things were going to get. Little did I know that things would soon get positively frog-like.
Kahnrad and I made our way through the crowd. I kept my nose in the air, reinforcing my leather armor with a shield of pompous aristocracy. The air being a fraction fresher near the ceiling was a bonus.
A very drunk goblin stumbled into me. He glared unsteadily at my breastbone.
"Hey, horse lover, you lookin' t' start somethin'?" he demanded in the scratchy, high voice of goblinkind.
"There's nothing to start," I said dryly. He looked up at me and belched. My eyes watered, and my retaliatory backhand slapped him to the floor. I stepped over his prostrate form, rubbing my eyes.
Stilletto's Last Ride
Stiletto Jack is a gangster who rats out his mob to the feds. Now he's on the run--in the Wild West! When his stash of hot diamonds is stolen from him on the train, Jack must enlist the help of a dominiatrix Calamity Jane to take down a gang of S/M cowboys (picture it--gimps on horseback!). That's the easy part. The hard part is going to be staying on one of those goddamn horses...
Stiletto has settled in as an eccentric (and rich) sheriff in Bullwhip City. He maintains order with a particular unorthodox flair that US Marshals observe with discomfort. When a veritable army of gangsters out for his head come to town, he's going to need all the order he can get (along with a little chaos), to beat them. At the same time, he's got to deal with a group of bandits that are based, of all places, on a ship! Luckily he's got the love of an aggressive woman and her six-shooters at his side.
Friday, April 23, 2004
"I'm like a tuba. You wanna know why...?"
I am so hungry right now.
DSL gets bitchy a lot. A lot. Cuts me off, let's me back on, cuts me off...I think I'll call my ISP up with an important message: "Hey, Bellsouth? I'm like a tuba. Because you can just BLOW ME!!!"
So, I applied to the Summer Session in Film over at NCSA, right? Wrote the "what I expect" essay and all. I was accepted.
And then today they called with some good news: "Justin is not eligible because he is not a high school student or a graduated high school student." But, hell, i'm not even 18! I graduated homeschool early and jumped into college. It's like gettin' punished for being a good student.
I was on the road when I heard the news, so I advised mom to call them and try and get the film people on the phone because the person who called was a "supervisor," read, a pencil-pushing beuraucrat in Admissions. I'm in with the Dean. I saw him the other day in the bookstore and he asked me when I was applying to NCSA, quite eagerly it seemed. If I could get him on the phone he'd probably push me through the system (the fuckin' Dean here).
Mom said it cost about $1800 to take the session, and I could get outfitted with some decent equipment for that price amount of money. That means a digital camera (with Firewire of course), Final Cut Pro, and a nice little Mac. Which is really all I need to make a movie. Lots of people are eager to get in front of the camera (including me), so actors are not a problem.
The big thing here was that I was going to relish going back (I'd been there the previous summer) and be the biggest know-it-all ever due to the PCC classes. Also, I was looking forward to seeing a friend or two from the previous session. But I figure I can do that by acting, since the Summer Session filmmakers can bring in outside actors. I'll just make it known I'm available for pretty much anything in the way of comedic acting, and make my own stuff in the meantime.
Meanwhile, NCSA can...oh, finish the sentence yourself.
Thursday, April 22, 2004
Just watched "The Matrix: Revolutions." Not bad. Great lighting. The plot was, well, it was there. It didn't give me a reaction one way or another. The face made of thousands of little flying bug machines was the shit, though.
Two or three years ago, I attended the Summer Session in Drama at NCSA. One class this included was Singing. I have an OK singing voice (in a certain range), and I learned how to control it in this class.
The teacher was a Peuorto Rican named Ricky. Very cheerful guy, very funny. A good singer, of course.
The piano player who provided music for us to sing to was named Damon. Also Spanish but only in ancestry, as he told me. He smoked a lot and had a great mop of curly black hair. He wore pants that I told him he could smuggle Mexicans into the country with. He carried a dingy, palm-sized stuffed pig named Moopig. Moopig was the mascot of the singing class. Damon would puppet him from behind the piano and induce him to dance and make insulting motions at Ricky.
Before we started singing, we would have to warm up. This meant tongue twisters. To get over being embarrassed about singing, we made utter fools of ourselves. Here's how it went:
As Damon played the piano, Ricky instructed us to sing a certain tone, "OOOooooOOOooooOOOooo" or some such. Then..."Meditate!" We assumed the meditating pose. "Surf!" We pretended to surf. "Meditate! Surf! Meditate! Surf! Surf! Surf! Meditate! Meditate! Surfmeditatesurfmeditatesurfsurf!"
"Medisurf! Surfitate!" I coudn't tell the difference between those two.
"Now, pretend to be French tigers wearing snooty berets while painting three-dimensional pictures of Damon playing a therimin! At the same time, you are being chased by giant Moopig clones who are mummies and on fire! Don't stop the singing!"
Then we'd sing a show tune that I felt was rather naughty until the whole fall in love thing. It went something like "Birds do it/bees do it/even flowers in the trees do it/let's do it/let's do it/let's fall in love!"
Damon told us the original lyrics, which were racist and rude. Ricky wouldn't let us sing that version though. Something about chinks and japs.
Highway to Hell
I have seen Hell, and its name is I-40. Well, you know, aside from its name being Hell.
I was coming back from dinner in High Point on I-85, rather tired and dazed. I drove and drove and drove. "Gee, it seems like it's taking longer to get back there than it did to get here..." I realized why when I reached the fork in the interstate to choose between Raleigh and Durham. I pulled over and whipped out the map. A whole 'nother part of the fucking state, that's where I was. When I take a wrong tunr it pisses me off. This put me way past pissed off and out the other side to utter despair.
I turned around and went back through Burlington and Greensburo. Three hours out of my fucking way I went. I felt like I would drive forever on the dark lonely interstate and never reach home. But I did reach it at one AM. Then I stayed up until 4 AM, because I can't just go to bed--I have people to talk to and webcomics and blogs to read. Or at least check; it seems like Kevin never posts enough to satisfy. I guess he's taken a lesson from the dancers.
On the up side, I got a movie idea from it. This guy sells his soul to the Devil to become a winning race car driver. On his way back from dinner in High Point or whatever, he accidently takes a wrong turn and ends up on Route 666, the Highway to Hell! "Route 666" seems familiar, I hope it hasn't been used before.
On the Highway he picks up a hitchhiker, who is God. Or an angel or whatever. God explains what he has to do, which is outrace famed, dead race car drivers. The Devil appears as both a trucker and a biker, and after our boy has beat the old drivers as a racer also. The vehicles I'm imagining for this shit would be awesome.
The lighting would be intriguing as well. To motivate more light, the vehicles would be modded up with under-lights and so on. The backlights on the dashboard of Trucker Satan would be red. Headlights, red-tinted, or black lights. The camera work would be a lot of fun, too. Helicopter shots, car shots, drive-bys.
If he can't beat the Devil, he'll go to Hell and have to make the endless commute from, like the damned drivers he passes and sees coming the opposite way in souless, identical sedans.
So I got to class late and discovered we had biscuits available. Craft service, hot damn. I contributed two dozen Krispy Kremes.
The lighting set-up was that of a talk show. We had 14 lights in one small classroom. Two people, each with 3.5k watts pouring on them. It was fucking hot under there, actors have it rough. You know, aside from the whole "having sex with other good looking people and being obscenely rich" thing. Quade (our instructor) was very proud of the set-up, he said it was the biggest anybody had ever done in the Black Box room. He brought in a bunch of NCSA people and told us to keep the dialogue clean.
No cursing, no drug jokes, no miming drug use, no mention of sex or pornography or "your mom." So I interviewed Jon about how he was DP on a shoot that weekend. It was boring. I mentioned "the viewers" and he said, "You have no viewers," which got a big laugh. I get no respect.
Derek (buddy and fellow student) came in at the last hour because he'd been in court. I told him to sit down (Sit the fuck down!") and I interviewed him. "Here we are in the studio with Don Paskoloni! Don, I hear you just got out of court. What was the charge? Was it that prostitution ring?"
"No, public intoxication."
"Oh, you were celebrating getting off of that murder rap, then?"
"You're the biggest Don here in Winston-Salem. What do you do? Prostitution?"
"Sell crack?" I leaned closer. "Can I get some?"
"Here buddy." He slipped me some air crack under the table. "I gotta go."
"Can't leave that brick of crack out in the car alone, eh?" Over his protest, "Can I come?"
Cut. Hey, I thought it was pretty funny.
Earlier this evening I went over to Derek's house and we watched "The Way Of The Gun." It sucked. Good cinematography, and the beginning was funny, but the story sucked. Badly. Jonathan has poor taste in movies. I require my film to entertain me all the way through.
I bitched his ass out on IM when I got back to the house, but he ain't remoseful yet. To get him back, I'll reccomend "Cradle 2 the Grave," one of the most horrible movies I've ever forced myself to watch.
This could lead to unpleasantness...
I apologize for the bad spacing. The indents don't paste correctly. "V/O" means "voice over," and "OS" means "off screen." This is a script for the Summer Session in Film that's coming up. I've got a few other ideas, but this one is doable in terms of time, and the writing is done, and that's a plus.
1 EXT. DARK CORNER – LATE EVENING
Open with shot of SLYFUCK JONES in a dark corner in the city. It’s Sherlock Holmes crossed with Slim Shady crossed with The Shadow. He flips up his collar and lights a cigarette. He shivers, finishes his cigarette. Then he strides out across the street and into an office building.
The story you are about to hear is complete bullshit. The names have been fabricated for cheap laughs.
CUT TO WATSONSON in a crisp suit with suitcase walking briskly along the sidewalk. Alfred crossed with Watson. Close up of his feet, pull back and pan up to his knees, then hips, torso, and head. Pull back to see Watsonson walk into office building.
2 INT SLYFUCK’S OFFICE -- DAY
CUT TO Slyfuck sitting at his desk. He swills from a bottle and rolls a cigarette between his fingers longingly.
Good morning Master Jones. Have you by some slim chance read this morning's paper? There's a picture of you on the front page, along with a story concerning the confiscation of a large amount of cocaine.
Would this have something to do with the crate marked "Top Secret" that you have hidden in the closet, sir?
Can't let good coke go to waste.
Excuse me sir?
There is the sound of a sharp inhalation, and Slyfuck’s head comes up into frame. He wipes his nose.
There is a loud report at the door. Watsonson goes to answer it.
Hey, lemme through! I wanna talk to that private dick, Slyfuck Jones! I got a fuckin' case for him! OW!
The loudmouthed individual is escorted into Slyfuck's presence by Watsonson, who is holding him in a wristlock.
You have a caller, Master Jones.
Who the fuck is the guy in the penguin suit? I wanna talk to the private dick.
You say you've got a case for me. I only take cases if they have money in them.
Well, I ain't got no briefcase, but this should do the trick.
The caller takes out a roll of bills and peels off several. Slyfuck makes them disappear.
Now tell me your problem, Billy.
How the fuck you know my name?
I discern the outline of a blackjack in your pocket. Also, there is a letter addressed to "William" peeking forth from your pocket. In addition, you are socially low in appearance, dress, and speech. Therefore, you must be Billy the Blackjack.
You're a fuckin' genius!
I know. But we weren't talking about how good my deductions are. I know how good my deductions are. That's why I'm a private eye. We were talking about your dilemma.
Oh, yeah. Well, my old man just happens to be--
A high-level enforcer for the mob.
The fuck you know that?
I hear things. I hear things.
Best not to hear too many things, 'cause my pops and me, we see dead people. A lot of dead people, in our business. Anyway, this old guy Caputti just bit the big one last month. Now, Mrs. Caputti has made it obvious that she has a thing for my pops. My pops, he likes her ok for an old broad, but--
He likes her money more.
Billy shakes a finger.
You. YOU. You're good. The fuck you know so much?
I know the human race. But please, continue.
Well, if my old man marries her, he gets her money. But maybe she likes him enough, he doesn't have to get married and she leaves him the money anyway. So of course my pops, he wanna find out if she like him enough to leave him her money when she kicks off. An' he don' wanna come right out and ask her himself, so he tells me he wants me to do it, real sneaky-like. He just so happens to have two tickets to this big fuckin’ to-do of a dinner party this old Caputti broad was throwin'.
The Easter gala affair, yes?
Yeah, that. How the fuck you know that?
I read the social pages.
Oh, read. Yeah, I heard a' that once. Anyway, we're at this party, right? And we got prime seats at the dinner table, right? I'm sittin' right next to 'er. I'm plyin' this old broad with a bit of booze, she likes this really old, expensive stuff that I only drink at the Don's birthday parties, right? I talk to her about stuff...y'know, like her dog, a yappy little puffball sorta mutt, and how her fuckin' rheumatism is givin' 'er trouble, and how she oughta fire her butler 'cause he's bangin' all the maids and her daughter ta boot.
A haunted look comes into Billy's eyes.
WIDOW CAPUTTI (V/O)
Pass me a bit more of that fine wine, would you, William? Fill my glass. No, no, I said FILL my glass. My, you are a dense boy. Have I told you about my adorable little Pomeranian? He's such a dear little thing. The way he begs for food is so--
AAAAGH! DIE, BITCH, DIE!
There is the sound of the table overturning, glasses and plates shattering, Billy taking the safety off his gun and firing wildly. In his memory, Billy snaps back from fantasy to reality with an accompanying sound effect—maybe a zipper.
He sounds like a fuckin' delightful little doggie.
WIDOW CAPUTTI (V/O)
You have such a quaint way of expressing yourself, William. You're such a character.
But finally, finally, I gets her drunk enough to ask the question I need to ask.
WIDOW CAPUTTI (V/O)
Gimme some more booze, Billy boy. Have I asked you your advice about servants? You see, I have this butler, and he's screwing the maids until they can't walk straight. Now I can understand how a guy like him needs to let it out, because when you walk like you have a broomstick up your ass maybe you want to unbend a bit and put it up someone else's--but he's putting it to them all the time, and last week my tea was late!
Your butler? I could take the motherfucker for a ride if ya want. Tell me somethin', Mrs. C...Whatcha think of my pops?
WIDOW CAPUTTI (V/O)
I want to take off his wrapper and lick him until I get to his creamy center!
Does that mean you'd marry him?
WIDOW CAPUTTI (V/O)
MARRY him? I'll say! I'm leaving all my money to the bastard!
Mother of holy fuck, that's fuckin' great!
WIDOW CAPUTTI (V/O)
Have I told you what a character you are, Billy boy? Dense, but a character.
And she confirmed that she was leavin' her dough to my pops, right? Well, my pops is sittin' across from me, one or two seats away from the old broad, 'cause he can't stand ‘er. I was 'sposed to give 'im a signal if she was leavin' the money--I was gonna kick him real hard under the table. So I kicked him. He must have jumped a bit or somethin', cause the dishes rattled a bit. His foot felt like it was made outta fuckin' wood. But I don't know what the fuck was wrong with 'im, 'cause right after dinner he proposes to the broad! What the fuck happened?
Based on your account and the comments within such as "the dishes rattled a bit" and "his foot felt like it was made outta fuckin' wood," I would venture to say...
I would venture to say...
I would venture to say...
That you kicked the foot of the table instead.
Rough-cut close-ups on Billy's astonished face: Medium--close--really close.
I would also venture to say that you and also, possibly, your pops were the killers of the Widow Caputti last night. In fact I would have ventured to say this the moment you sat down, and did not so that the police would have time to get here.
A siren approaches and a police car pulls up outside. Blue-and-whites whirl through the window.
Ah, right on cue.
Close-up on Billy's eye—his hand, inside his jacket.
Say hello to my little friend—
Camera from Billy’s POV as Slyfuck stands up and punches him in the face.
Here’s lookin’ at you…punk.
Billy looks up from the floor where he fell, swallows, then scrambles for the door. He reaches the hallway and encounters the police.
There is the sound of gunfight. Shot of Billy through the door being shot down. Slyfuck stands up.
Well…he made my day. Watsonson...you can take the rest of the day off.
I'll be finishing up this paperwork first, sir.
I'll be chasing some pussy.
Very good, sir.
Elementary, my dear Watsonson.
Watsonson looks at the camera, grimaces, and waggles a hand with spread fingers. He looks back at Slyfuck.
(sighs) I can’t believe I said it either…
Slyfuck walks out, stepping over Billy's body. We see him come out of the office building and walk down the sidewalk. He exhales a puff of smoke and tosses his cigarette butt to the curb. Close-up of the butt rolling to a stop and then shot of Slyfuck walking away.
Tuesday, April 20, 2004
"He practically wrote the book on it. Wait, he DID write the fucking book."
Today the PCC Sound Operations class, usually taught by Ben "Word" Turney, had a session with David Yewdall of NCSA. He wrote a book called "Practical Art of Motion Picture Sound," that we use as our textbook. How cool is that, to know and be taught by the guy that fucking wrote your college textbook? It's got a green cover with some vague pictures taken from the inside of the book. David showed us the cover that he pitched to the publishers. It had a bunch of guys in jumpsuits holding sound equipment and featured a topless woman. He identified them all. "That's so-and-so, a famed boom man...that's John Smith, he's real good at getting sound effects, from the wierdest places...oh, the topless chick? That's my wife." Grunts of manly approval and chuckles all around. David said "Sex sells," and he's right. I'd probably have finished the damn thing by now if it had his cover on it. "Look, Mom, my coolest textbook ever!"
I was appointed the task of taking pictures for the PCC newsletter, and I annoyed everybody with it. What could I do--I couldn't turn the flash off on the digital fuckin' camera that Ben gave me to use, and when I did turn it off I couldn't get good pics. Oh well. There should be something good for Sarah to use.
He talked about editing and mixing. I confess I tuned that bit out, or at least forgot it. If I ever want to be a Foley artist then I should know that shit, but it was a lot of computer stuff...I generally learn that sort of thing by doing. "Hey, what's this button do if I click on it? Hey, what just happened? OK, now where's the fucking manual?" No, seriously...the easiest way to learn a program is to fuck around with it yourself, with help only when you actually need it.
"Foley" refers to manufacturing sound effects, after a man named Jack Foley. He worked for Universal Studios back in the day, and they were the last ones to adopt the "Foley stage" term. That's gratitude for ya. A number of us had the opportunity to get in one of a number of Foley pits, this one filled with dirt and rocks, and simulate running. We had to try and synch it up with a clip from "Starship Troopers," a movie David worked on. Running, running up a hill, a kind of shuffle/side-step, hit the dirt, move around a bit while blowing up some bugs, get back up, run into a cave. All of this in a space three foot square. I went twice.
Great idea I stole from Monkey--stick some punctuation in between topics. I'm using asstracks for this post, you know, the star thingies that you see above this paragraph--but I may switch to a line: __________________ or maybe some cartoon cursing: %$#@&!!!, since I use so much of the real thing.
Gloat retracted. Apology offered. Let's all restrain ourselves in the future, if possible. If impossible, a ban will be reinstated.
Monday, April 19, 2004
Hey, Kevin: You ever tried the fish-and-chicken dinner at TJ's?
You probably are aware of Kevin's blog, Life at TJ's Place. It's the one that people are going apeshit over. When I said that Kevin inspired me to start blogging, I neglected to mention that it was because I wanted people to go apeshit over my blog. Oh, shit, did I just type that? Jynx! Fucking jynx!
Kevin has mentioned a girl who has blantantly come onto him on numerous occasions. The Girl In Question is a dancer at the club he works at (or an occasional dancer). She invited him to eat her out, something about Kevin being a bad boy and late for his dinner. If that weren't enough....well, I'll quote Kevin: "Earlier this week, she came up in the booth and bent over in front of me and started bumping her nearly-naked butt against me. She said, 'Kev, just grab my hair and slam me a couple times like you're banging me in the ass.' Kev gets really embarrassed by this kind of shit."
Kevin said he chickened out (never mind the "tastes like chicken" joke) during the late for dinner incident. I can understand that. Kevin told me via comment that there were too many people around to take her up on her offer anyway.
Well, gee golly Kevin, why not invite her over sometime when there are no people? As you said, "Danielle is one of those dancers who always complains about how she never gets laid." Give the poor girl a bit of company. Or maybe you'd rather be choosy with your charms? Perhaps you'd prefer to spend time with Jessica? That's reasonable, but gosh...I would think that Danielle is at least attractive, if she works in a strip joint, particularly more if she's a road girl (I'm not really that knowlegeable about this stuff, I'm just guessing). At least throw her a pity fuck, man...
Well, I understand that what ultimately happens is really none of my business. But if you're going to give your audience a glimpse into your love life, give us an idea of the money scene. We're not asking for, (well, I'm not asking for) torrid, erotic prose, merely a confirmation that something happened so we can feel like the story had an end. To the chapter if not the book. Picture your audience as a dog on a chain, desperate for more attention in the form of your humorous anecdotes. When you mention these tantalizing little tidbits concerning near-naked women coming on to you, it's like waving a big juicy piece of raw steak in front of the dog's nose (picture a large bulldog, like in the Tom & Jerry cartoons). We want to hear more.
So please, Kevin...no more yanking on the Chain of Curiosity. At least not without throwing a Biscuit of Confirmation. We don't want to have to call the SPCA on you.
Shots fired. No hits reported.
Question: Can they (They being The Man, the Big Fucking Record Company) monitor you on bittorrent? And is bittorrent illegal, whereas Kazaa is technically legal? Is Kazaa technically legal? My ass-ociate and buddy Mac likes to try and scare me. If you think he's full of shit, IM him and tell him so.
I think that the RIAA should cut out the middlemen and put out their own records.
"We are rich like a fattening dessert/we are white like a Country Club polo shirt/we're as old as the motherfucking dirt/Suck us!/Don't fuck with us!/Or you are going to fucking get hurt!"
I don't see much of a difference.
Helmet Head is Back in Nicotown
This morning I had Camera and Lighting II, in which we explore the way film, cameras, and video work. Lighting theory was in Camera and Lighting I, last semester. The class often has some boring lecturing, but even that is lightened up by the amusing exchanges between our small group of students and our teacher, an extremely cool individual named Jonathan Quade.
Quade had told me last week that we'd be doing a music video, and I should wear appropriate clothing. I chose my regular ensemble with a few modifications. Blue jeans, shitkicking boots, and a bomber jacket. To this I added a Rolling Stones shirt with the tongue logo splashed across the chest in red, white and blue and a spiked haircut red on top and blue on the sides with dots of white. I tried to do white stripes as well, but since all the gel was wet that goal was thwarted and the white was overcome by the red. Read all the racial symbolism into it you like.
I walked into class looking cool like James Dean. Nice big reaction--"HOLY SHIT!" said Derek. As the gel dried, I acquired a nice stiff helmet of hair. Helmet-Head is back in Nicotown, and he's ready for his showdown with Dr. Organic Shampoo. I swear, I'd cock an eyebrow and all my hair would move. To explain the Nicotown joke, R.J. Reynolds owns most of Winston-Salem.
We constructed a nice little lighting set-up using the grid in the Black Box room. A grid is a structure used to hang lights and grip rigs from. The Black Box room is a term applied to certain classrooms in a building on the NCSA campus that can be utilized for lighting easier than you might use a conventional room, due to the pipes hanging from the ceiling, i.e. the grid which I mentioned earlier. Clear?
The set-up consisted of a plastic sheet clipped in the middle to one bar and clipped at the ends to another pipe, forming a sort of vertical "V" shape. Behind the sheet we had three bounce cards (well, one was the dry erase board but it worked just fine). We punched a 650 Arri with a Congo Blue gel onto the dry-erase board. A gel is plastic clipped over a light with C-47s (clothespins) to compensate for the camera settings or just for effect.. We flanked the dry erase board with the two smaller bounce cards and punched 350 Arris outfitted with red gel into those. The effect was of a sort of obscured background with blue and red rectangles floating in the background.
To give the scene some excitement, we affixed mirror frames (squares of mirror) to the grid directly above the actor's mark. When two Baby-Babys (lights) were played over them, interesting things happened with the light in the room. My keylight (main light fixed directly on me) was another 650 Arri.
After we fixed all that up, I picked up the guitar Quade had brought and sat down on his amplifier. I fingered the frets, I strummed the strings, I made beautiful music, 'cause I'm a rocker and I rock out. Actually, I was surprised at how good it sounded despite how I was bullshitting the musicianship.
This just in, J. Kuhn secretly desires a sex change operation!
I have an online class entitled "College Student Success." It's bullshit. If I already got through a semester with a 3.0 GPA (not hard to do at a community college) why do I need to bother?
In any case, I should be finishing up a paper entitled "New Perspective" right now that answers these questions:
Imagine that you have no choice but to change either your gender or your racial, ethnic, or religious group.
1. Which would you change and why?
2. What do you anticipate would be the positive and negative effects of the change--in your social life, in your family life, on the job, and at school?
3. How would what you know and experience before the change affect how you would behave after it?
Well, these all have advantages. I'm exempt from change of religion, because I have no religious group. The closest religion to my way of thinking is the First Church of Satan, excepting the "magik" bullshit.
Ethnicity, well...actually being able to say that I'm Irish would be cool. I don't really have any feeling on it.
Race and gender. How am I supposed to write that and stay politically correct? I don't think the teacher wants to hear that the reason I'd want to be black is because my dick would (conceivably) be bigger, or Asian because I'd know kung fu (a somewhat more baseless assumption), or a woman because I'm interested in the sexual experience.
The questions also lead me to believe that this would all happen overnight. Well hell, why not, while we're fantasizing, I mean, philosophying.
"What do you anticipate would be the positive and negative effects of the change--in your social life, in your family life, on the job, and at school?"
What the hell is that!? Hmmm, yes, I would, hypothetically get comments!
"Why, Justin. You have breasts! How interesting! What are you doing Friday night?"
"'Sup J? Where were ya this weekend, man? You got one hell of a tan!"
"Dear Mr. Kuhn: Due to your sudden and recent plastic surgery and hormone treatments, we have decided it would be best for all concerned if we kicked your perverted ass out of our program. Please, have a nice life in California. You freak.
The Board in Charge of Stuff"
And the third question, I just don't know about that. I just don't. Maybe I'd find out I preferred sex as a man? The stuff you knew before, how does it influence what you're knowing now? I don't know, because it happens constantly and I don't have to think about it. I don't think it would really effect anything, but that's not really true. What I mean is that I don't really think I'd be that different (mentally), so things would basically continue the way they did before. It seems like a profound question on the face of things, and it is. Profoundly stupid.
And no. A sex change ain't in the cards for me. Scalpel + Mr. Happy = Mr-Not-So-Happy.
Never break wind in space unless you want to bring new meaning to the word "rectum."
"Rectum? It damn near killed 'im!"
I watched "Outland," a sci-fi movie made in the early 80's, the other night. In a nutshell, it featured Sean Connery (the older version) as a marshal (or is that Marshall? I forget) aboard a mining outpost on Io, a moon of Jupiter. Something nasty is going down, because miners are committing suicide in really bloody ways. It turns out to be drugs, and Connery suspects that the distribution is company-santioned.
Or in the simpler terms of a western: "One man. One sheriff. One very crooked town. And only one day."
The plot isn't much to speak of. It has a few twists, but I've seen better. The acting is pretty good. I especially enjoyed the conversations that Connery had with the caustic doctor, played by Frances Sternhagen. The sets were fairly realistic. Basic, utilitarian, very corporate. A few notches higher than "Total Recall."
Something that the DVD Special Features bragged about was "Intravision" or some such. "Seamless transition from miniatures to live-action." I don't know about that, I caught at least one of these so-called transitions. Still, for a while before I was born, not a bad movie. Didn't quite measure up to, say, Star Wars, but then...whaddaya gonna do, Star Wars is Star Wars.
One fairly prominent bit of physics that the movie featured was that if you open your suit in space, you explode. I know if you come up too fast when deep sea diving your lungs explode, but I don't know if that would be quite as bloody as Outland portrayed. I also know that if you shoot a hole in an airplane window you get sucked out through it (hey, it happened to Goldfinger) due to the difference in pressures, again. I saw one space movie where an astronaut (William H. Macy, something to do with Mars) committed suicide by pulling off his helmet in vacuum, creating instant frozen astro-stick. But I read a Rogue Squadron novel where a pilot was exposed to vacuum, and he pulled through (though his lekku were numbed a bit).
I asked a knowlegeable buddy of mine, Jimmy, about the subject. You can check out his xanga here. It's amusing, and sometimes funny or even laugh-inducing. Click on the damn link and and decide for yourself.
Here's what he had to say about what happens when a human being is exposed to vaccuum.
Jimmy: Two things happen automatically, either one can kill you-One, all the air is pulled out of your lungs so fast that you end up with those lungs sticking out of your TEETH...
The other sucks the blood out of your body before it can freeze, leaving your corpse a bloody, mutilated mess. Well, that's not really instant, but it does happen pretty fast.
Me: It doesn't freeze inside?
Jimmy: Not for a good while, you're long dead before it does. Remember, astronauts are fine up there with just big padded suits. It can't be THAT cold. What kills you first is the vacuum. It's what does that to your lungs and blood.
If you empty all the air in your lungs you can and are only out there for a few seconds, you can theoretically remain in space for a very brief period of time.
Oh, forgot one OTHER important thing you'd need to make that survival-Earplugs.
Jimmy: Your brain would get sucked straight out your ears. If you fart while moving through space, expect rectal damage. No kidding. Generally, every orifice needs to remain shut.
Me: To maintain internal pressure, yes?
Jimmy: Yep. There is no pressure in space, only a vacuum. Anything that can be ripped through that vacuum will be done so in a painful, painful way. Even your pores, though that takes a little while to be lethal.
So, according to Jimmy, Outland didn't exactly have its science right. Not exactly out of the ordinary for Hollywood, but I found the question intriguing enough to inquire about. If you my so-called reader base have something to say on the subject, leave a comment, send an e-mail or an IM. Any of these are subject to reposting.
That's all very interesting, but when you see a guy's head swell up like a balloon inside his helmet you can be pretty sure it's not scientifically correct. If that sounds like something you'd like to see, go rent Outland. It wasn't bad, for old science fiction.
Lastly, go check out "Life at TJ's Place," blogged by the talented Kevin. I have to confess that this is the blog that inspired me to start one of my own. Whether Kevin can continue to inspire me in this way remains to be seen. Keep on bloggin', Kevin.
Y0u g07 n3 g00|] pr0n???
Porn, what do you think about it? Don't talk to me about how the guy who invented it should get a medal (you know it was a guy), there must have been at least five hundred cavemen that all thought at the same time, "Ugh! Can paint sex on wall! Can make sex with hand later! Can take pictures and video of wall and publish to internet!"
So, we know we like it. But don't you agree there are bad aspects? Even of your basic girl-on-guy bread-and-butter porn. I'm talking about one aspect, and it is the hairy aspect. In short, the male half of the scene. Usually his only good feature is his wild one-eyed wonder worm. You try not to look at that guy, you try to block out any sound he might make.
Darth Vader interjects: "The Wang is strong in this one!" Then he breathes heavily, and not because of his respirator. Hey, he wears lots of leather, he pretends to be a black man, he wails on folks with a phallic symbol made of pure energy, he's into asphyxiation by willpower...What do you expect. Actually, I could go for the phallic symbol bit myself....
Anyway, that's the good thing about lesbian porn. There isn't a guy. Thank god there's no guy here to put up with! It's all boobs and tongues and lips and feminine moaning. I twitch.
But no guy present means no roving root of ramnation. This totally ruins the fantasy that I'm in this movie, you know?
And plastic sure doesn't cut it. They bring in gigantic dildos, baseball bats, telephone poles, you name it...Trying to compensate. But it just ain't wang! It's like those plastic knives at McDonald's. They just don't cut it.
Ah, sex fantasy...The subtle knife. What we realize in the end is that it's all a substitute for actual sex. Doubtless when the girls come to their senses and start throwing themselves at me I shall come to believe, no pun, that sex is merely a substitute for "actual love."
The blog that will drag the world kicking and screaming into the Century of the Fruitbat
Greetings from beyond midnight. Nine minutes to be precise. I have created this blog for various purposes. These include but are not limited to: getting attention, getting laid, getting someone to listen to me, and...Oh, hell, they're all variations of "getting attention." I'm a natural performer. Except for the whole "stay at home and mastur--master foreign languages" thing, of course.
I intend to talk about many things in this blog, because I don't really think I should limit myself. That's right, I'll talk about video games AND movies! I'm on the cutting edge of fuckin' journalism now, ain't I?
Seriously though (imagine a little man standing on my shoulder who coughs "Horseshit!" into his fist whenever I say anything about being serious) I will also talk about my life. The interesting things. I mean the things that I find interesting. You may not think attending tuxedo parties, sneaking about in criminal masterminds' fortresses, and making love to exotic women is exciting, but it is after all the humble affair I like to term "my life."
All right, I'll start over. You'll hear about how I get laid all the time. About how I attract admiring stares from everyone in the street. About--
Let me start over. I'm going to talk about the things that my life is filled with: wine, women and song, sword and sorcery, dungeons and dragons, and homework that gets done on time.
Last start over. Movies, making movies, learning how to make movies, maybe a bit about video games, my ideas for movies and books and comic strips and video games, the fairer sex (the few that I encounter on an "Hi, I know you," basis), bad jokes I made in my day, humorous (or just stupid) observations of mine, and that's about it. If you encounter anything else let me know. I'm trying to run a specialized blog here.
Note: this and a few of the following posts were previously posted a while back on a different, unsatisfactory URL.