AND THERE ARE MANY OF US

Still in Austin. Saw four movies yesterday: With This Breath I Fly, a beautiful and unsettling documentary about two women in Afghanistan; Clean Slate, an uplifting documentary about two men in and our of recovery making a short film; The Worst Person in the World, which is one of my two favorites at the fest so far, a narrative about a woman's path to finding herself; and It Hatched, a comic horror film set mostly in Iceland. 

Four movies in one day. And it was amazing. Yet another facet of this diamond of creativity that is the Austin Film Festival. Just Groovy beyond belief, soul filling, mind blowing, life affirming stuff.

But I want to tell you a story about another event that happened here, a few nights back, which feels like two years ago or more. I signed up for a chance to tell a ghost story at A Night of Ghost Stories presented by Phantom Wines, a cool event at the Driskill where the first 20 or so people who signed up could pitch a ghost story to the room. Being a lifelong fan of all things spooky, I signed up immediately. This was a few weeks ago, I didn't get a response email, and thought maybe I didn't make the cut, but wanting to be sure, I followed up at the festival itself, and found out I made the cut. 

Which was both cool and scary because I had assumed I didn't get in, and hadn't really prepared. I figured I would pitch a version of American Spirits, a pilot for a limited series I'm working on about a small town slowly being taken over by a pair of ghosts who are total assholes, but who a good chunk of the town find charming and delightful. My back up plan was to tell an actual ghost story that happened to me long ago in NYC.

We got to the event, and before things go started, a real life paranormal investigator was introduced, who gave us all the haunted history of the Driskill Hotel, which is quite extensive and full of all sorts of spooks and spirits. He keeps mentioning how there is this one room that is particularly active, where all sorts of things happen, and where a woman killed herself. 

And then he says the room number. 

And it's ours. 

We freak out, and then, being the actor and ham that I am, I use it when I introduce my story, saying "Just so you all know, my wife and I are stying in Room #I-Can't-Say-at-the-Hotel's-Request." Everyone in the audience gasps. "And if I see a ghost there tonight, it won't be the first time". More gasps. And I launch into my tale, which is as follows:

When I was in my twenties, I lived in NYC with my brother in a garden level apartment on the Upper East Side, on 89th Street between 2nd and 3rd. One night, I couldn't sleep, because my brother can snore better than anyone in the business. I think he might have kept some folks up in Jersey that particular night. So there I was, laying in bed in my room, which was the lower level of a two floor apartment, which was located right behind an old church. 

Probably where the Boneyard was located at some point.

I felt this strange sense of calm overcome me, and I looked to the spiral staircase that led to my room. Coming down the stairs were two children: a young girl who looked to be about 9, and a boy behind her who looked to be about 6. They were both dressed in black, in clothes that were from an earlier time. Maybe Victorian, but certainly no later than turn of the last century. The girl was very serious, and the boy had this horribly sad energy, like someone who has been severely traumatized. He sort of hid behind the girl, who I just knew had to be his older sister. 

They stopped at the bottom of the stairs, and the girl looked me right in the eye and said: "We just want you to know, we are here."

I still was overcome by this strange stillness, and nodded my head. She continued.

"And there are many of us."

The boy peeked out from her side for a moment, then quickly ducked back even further behind her.

"We want to show you something".

And then I was given what I can only describe as a vision. It was like what happens in most versions of A Christmas Carol, when the various ghosts take Scrooge to various places. Suddenly, the girl, the boy, and I were in this massive, cavernous room, full of people frozen in time. Not literally frozen, like a film on pause. More like frozen in emotion. Some were joyous. Many were wracked with sorrow. A few were clearly furious. And all of them we so wrapped up in their various emotions, none of them could move.

And then, as quickly as it had begun, the vision was over and I was back in my bed, and the girl and boy were back at the foot of the stairs.

"We just wanted you to know that", the girl said. And with that, they turned and retreated up the stair, slowly vanishing as they climbed into the darkness.

And then I freaked out. I ran to my brother and woke him up, asking if he had seen or heard any of what had just transpired. 

He said he hadn't. 

I did not go back to sleep that night, even though it was just around 3 am.

I looked up ghostly visits the next day, and apparently, it is not uncommon when encountering a ghost to feel a sense of calm, even though one would find that counterintuitive. 

The next night, I was laying in bed, sound asleep, when I awoke. I had that feeling you sometimes get when you are certain there is someone in the room with you. I looked at the clock. It was again around 3 am. This time, I didn't feel calm. I felt frightened. I pulled my covers over my head, like I did when I was a kid and scared that The Boogie Man would get me. 

And then, I felt someone tapping my pillow, right next to my head. Insistently. Over and Over. Like someone trying to wake me up so they could play or talk or do whatever it is they wanted to do.

I kept my head under the covers and repeated, over and over for what seemed like a very long time, "Go away! Go Away! I don't want you here!"

At some point, the tapping stopped.

I never saw them again, and never had anyone tap my pillow. There was always a strange energy in the apartment, and a feeling that we were not alone. But nothing was ever quite as extreme as those two nights.

Still, there are nights when I wake up, and wonder where they are, what happened to all those frozen figures stuck in the past, and when I will once again feel someone slowly and insistently tapping on my pillow.

Here's a song. It's Ghost Story by The Avalanches.

THE SCREENWRITING LIFE

Monday morning, voice a little scraggy, eyes a little bleary, heart full of joy, brain full of conversations, pockets & desktop & backpack full of business cards from fellow screenwriters. The panels here at the Austin Film Festival are for the most part over, and now it's all about going over notes, sending follow up emails, and seeing movies. I slept for over six hours last night, which feels like a week of slumber. 

Last panel I went to yesterday was called "What Next?". Good title, better question. I've spent the past four or five days (time is even loopier here than it has been the past two years) meeting so many people, making so many connections, having so many new ideas. The panel consisted of Matt Dy, who used to run the competition for AFF and is now an agent Lit; Ashely Miller, who is hilarious and wrote Thor, X-Men First Class, and tons more; and Chuck Hayward, who is the nicest, coolest guy and wrote on WandaVision,  Dear White People, and now Ted Lasso. The way panels work is the first section is a moderated conversation about a given subject, then about fifteen minutes of audience questions, then the braver or more pushy rush the stage and ask more questions on a one-on-one basis. 

I was one of the pushy ones, and managed to talk with all three. I asked Ashely Miller about animating sequences in a hybrid script, which was helpful not only in the info he provided, but in how he responded in general to my idea. I talked with Matt Dy about query letters and what to put in them, and that led to me for sure writing a few of those this morning; and then I talked with Chuck Hayward about life, movies, and all sorts of things. I had seen him in an earlier panel, and we hit it off afterwards. Sometimes, you strike up a conversation with someone and it just clicks and you think "I really like just shooting the breeze with this guy". Both times I spoke with Chuck it was like that. Easy and fun. 

Lessons from that: Don't be afraid to approach people you want to talk with; and when you get over your fear and do approach them, just be yourself and realize everyone is a fellow human, not some deity to be fawned over. It makes for better chats and a happier experience for all parties.

Another cool/crazy/exciting thing happened to me here the other day. I went to a panel called The Screenwriting Life, which featured Meg LeFauve and Lorien McKenna. The title of the panel is also the title of their podcast. As we stood in line, LeFauve came out and asked if anyone wanted to be featured in their presentation, and the whole panel was going to be recorded for their podcast. There were about two hundred people in line, but I figured what the hell, so I raised my hand along with most everyone else, we signed some release forms and in we went. The panel began, and it came time to draw names out of a hat. First person called up was this guy who had interesting idea he wanted to kick around. It was really cool to watch Meg and Lorien discuss his work, as they are both so smart and insightful and kind. Then they pulled the second name. Lorien pulled out a sheet, looked at it, couldn't read it because of the bad hand writing. And I knew it would be mine, as I have shockingly terrible hand-writing. "I think this says Robert... something... McAllister?". And up I went. 

It was sort of an out-of-body experience. First, they had me give the basic plot of my script, The Belvedere Jungle. Then we dug in. It felt amazing, their ideas and questions perfect, and the response from the crowd felt like this warm wave of love. To use one of my favorite words, it was Groovy. After me,  young writer named Peyton, who is amazing and I am sure will sign with some manager soon, went up. And then it was over. In typical AFF fashion, Peyton and I are now AFF friends. We traded cards, chatted after the panel and several more times throughout the festival. And I've made many friends here like that. 

I think that is the greatest aspect of this festival. The connections you make. Not just in the business sense, which is great, but in the human sense. In the "I am a writer and I love movies and you do too? Wow! What are you working on, how's it going, what have you seen, where is the nearest coffee shop" kind of way. Speaking of that, I'm sitting in The Hideout on Congress between 6th and 7th in Austin right now, and I must order a latte for Lisa, and run off, and listen to the podcast, which just dropped. 

More stories of the AFF to come.

Here's not a song, but the episode of The Screenwriting Life I am on. 

https://anchor.fm/thescreenwritinglife/episodes/64--LIVE-From-The-Austin-Film-Festival-Story-Workshop-e198gfc/a-a54lnfh

STAR EXPLODING IN SLOW MOTION

It's a little before 8 am here in Austin. I am sitting in an empty Driskill Bar, the main meeting place for the Austin Film Festival, having my first coffee, collecting my thoughts and recollections from the past few days, going to this blog to keep some sort of connection to the Not-at-the-Festival me. And to let out some of the newly minted ghosts that sell memories. 

Was standing in line for an oat latte with my fellow bleary eyed geniuses and lunatics, and the woman who runs the Festival got in line behind me. I thanked her for the Festival, and we got to chatting like people do here, and in one of those odd things that happen in life, found out from here how a friend of mine had recently committed suicide. I knew he was dead, that he had his last film in this year's festival, but I didn't know the cause. 

Now I do. 

I must have some defect in my brain, because I have never understood someone taking their own life. I know the world can be relentlessly cruel, that there is anger and sorrow and stupidity in abundant supply. I have spent plenty of time in confusion. But always, no matter what, I sense this great underlying beauty in the universe. An ocean of peace waiting to be waded into. 

I can't say much more without sounding like an insensitive asshole who doesn't understand depression, mental illness, or people who experience life the way I do. 

I just miss my friend and wish I could text him after seeing his film and tell him it was amazing.

So there's that.

I have other news of the festival to share, triumphs and surprises, new friends and fresh insights.

But for today, I will just say this. Life is... a tapestry that demands to be noticed, and touched, and reflected upon, and then noticed some more. It is that first cup of coffee in the morning. It is the little fights you get into with your significant other that seem so important at the time, then vanish with a smile at the most unexpected moment. It's a new piece of music you've downloaded but haven't listened to yet. It's a comedic short, a feature that didn't quite get it right, and also the discussion on the way out as you throw away your popcorn container. It is a symphony of birds and bats at dawn. 

And I love it so intensely. I love this world. I love it all. 

Here's a song. It's Star Exploding in Slow Motion by The Comet is Coming. I was told about it last night by a film maker named Kingsley I met here at the AFF. I am listening to it for the first time as I type this.

FLYING WITH FRANKENSTEIN AND NORMAN BATES

November already? Really? What the fuck has happened to time, in general? I get the whole as time goes by it goes quicker thing. It sucks, but I get it. But since the Lockdown, it's totally gone bananas. Like we are all Bill Pilgrim from Slaughterhouse Five, unhinged from time and bouncing back and forth, in and out of reality, places, situations, and even dimensions. Which November is this? Am I laying in my tiny studio in NYC in 1990, dreaming of my future, or have I lost it and am sitting in some home for people who have lost it, stuck in a memory? Am I five? Thirty? Sixteen? Fifty-five? Did I have too much candy last night and this is just that crash after sugar, delayed for some reason? Was it a mistake to fall asleep while watching Frankenstein? 

And when I say Frankenstein, I mean the classic one. The one we all think of, or should think of, when the movie version is mentioned. It's so good and weird and campy at points and full of a style of acting I do not care for, but Karloff. Holy shit. And the lighting and sets. That first scene at the graveyard, so creepy. It always freaked me out when I was younger. Something about the titled gravestones in the background, the stoic mourners at the funeral, the statue of death, also tilted, and the gravedigger who treats putting a human body in the earth like a job to be done, nothing more or less. And then Doctor Frankenstein and his pal Fritz peek out from behind a tomb, clearly the villains. That scene puzzled and intrigued me every time I'd watch the flick, which was at least once a year. 

Also watched Psycho yet again last night. I think the shower scene is amazing, but what is to me really frightening is the sequence after, when Norman Bates cleans up the mess. It's both hilarious and horrific and fascinating. He finds the body, and reacts as if he truly thinks his mother has just killed someone. Then he gets himself together, runs to the office. If this was the first time watching, you'd think he was running to the phone to call the police, or maybe keep running past the office to the house to confront his mother about what she just did. But no, he runs in to the office, and then runs back out, holding a mop, and it is clear what he is going to do. No dialogue. Just action, image, and terror. It shows us how it wasn't just an act of madness in the moment, a crime of insane passion. This is a person who can and does on some level understand what has happened and what he has to do to keep himself safe.

Truly frightening.

So now, November and I have some writing to do. Got a few good bites after Austin, and need to clean up script and get it out. I've given myself two week, told the biters I'd have it by Thanksgiving, to give myself a little bonus time should I need it. Nothing like having a deadline to get your ass in gear. Or onto the seat, to put it in writer's terms. Butts in chairs. That's the thing we have to keep as our goal. The rest is just leaning in, crossing over to whatever world we have created, and then playing God. Really sort of crazy, saying that I play God. But I sort of do. I determine people's fates, personalities, journeys. Then, when i feel like my creation is good, I rest and hand over the reigns to others, who are... other Gods? Celestial judges? Not sure, but certainly part of the process.

Okay. Must rise from the dead, clean up the bodies, and create, or to be more accurate, recreate, another world.

Here's a song. It's a live, early version of Steve Miller's Fly Like an Eagle, and it's sweet.

I AM A NUTJOB AND A LUNATIC AND A FREAK AND SO ARE ALL OF YOU

Started to watch the Tod Browning version of Dracula starring Bela Lugosi last night. I know for a lot of people, when they think of Dracula, they base it off of that movie. And I can see why. It's just creepy and weird and kind of awesome. And when it came out, it must have freaked people out. We all kind of expect to see vampires coming out of coffins, but we've all seen either that movie, or some knock off of it, or at least a variation of it on commercials around this time of year. But when that movie came out, I bet the first shot of a coffin sitting in that castle probably seemed shocking. And then to have it open and have Bela Lugosi, all decked out like a man about town in his funky Tux and cape outfit climb out of it must have been crazy. And then to have this three creepy wives, who I was never sure were real when I was little, dreamily walk up to him. It's bizarre. Like nightmare bizarre, where it gives me the creeps and I'm not sure why. 

I love stuff like that. Things that are dreamlike, ethereal but somehow familiar, speaking to some part of my soul that fears what I am being presented with is an accurate representation of the world. A world full of people who sleep in coffins, of lost souls wandering abandoned castles, of madness and sorrow wrapped up in expensive clothes. 

I think horror appeals to people who live in this world.

And I'm not alone. There's a great article in the NY Times about horror themed restaurants, and if you click HERE you can read it.

Horror films are by far the genre that gets produced the most. You want to get someone to listen to a pitch for a movie? Make it a thriller. Scare them. Excite them. And also give them a little bit to chew on, to reflect on as they lay in bed at three in the morning after being woken up by some car alarm, waiting to go back to sleep, seeing the shadows take shape, reflecting in various and ever changing manner the world they live in. Zombies, werewolves, ghosts. All things we see on a daily basis. I feel like a zombie as I trudge to work. I am a werewolf by night, howling at the moon with my pack. I am a ghost each time I look at a photo of someone from my life who has gone on to the next world, for in my mind they are the living and I am the one banished to this strange world where I can't be with them anymore. 

Happy Tuesday, folks. 

I have lots of things like that in my stories. My first play centered around a man haunted by the love of his life. My latest pilot has a small town taken over by malignant ghosts who bring out the worst in everyone. The script that is a Second Rounder at Austin Film Festival this year has the main character saved by the Ghostboy of Thunderbird Island. 

I'm kind of a nut. But as Ghandi said, "I am a nutjob and a lunatic and a freak, and so are all of you". 

Tomorrow, I head off to the Lone Star State. I wonder how many monsters I will see, how many ghosts? Will there be ghouls waiting at the airport to eat us up? Coffins in all the basements, where they sleep at night? What if the film festival turns out to be this secret cult of weridos? I hope so. I have to just leap, and pray that the net appears. 

Here's a song I found last night on a playlist of spooky songs. It's Haunted Heart by Christina Aquilera.

THE WORLD IS MYSTICAL AND MY COFFEE, AN ELIXIR

I get up every morning at 5:30. It's weird, but true. I used to be able to sleep all day, no problem. I was famously impossible to wake. I remember laying in bed before school upstairs at my home in San Jose, long after my old clock radio had been snoozed at least five times, and my mom yelling up that I had to get going. Now, this was early, so there was a little justification. I had a paper route, and I needed to get my ass out of bed, fold my seventy or so papers, load them into my basket attached to the front of my bike, and hit the road. But there I would be, trying to continue to sleep, my mind still at least partially connected to that deep, dark world of sleep that lies at the bottom of the ocean or the vast reaches of outer space or some other dimension that is very warm and thick. And Mom would yell up. And I would reach over the side of my bed and smack the floor with my shoes to make her think I was up and moving. 

Now I wake up before the alarm, on a daily basis. I still feel that connection to Dreamland. But I awake. And the first thing I do is put on a kettle to make a fresh pot of coffee with our French press. It may sound snooty, but as those who know me will attest, I really don't care what people have to say about my coffee habits. So I put the water on, fill of mug of cold coffee from the day before and put it in the microwave, and then sit down to write in my journal.

I find this gives me peace, joy, a sense of self. And reminds me that I am a writer. This is something I think I need to do, as often as possible. Because it is easy to not think that way. To think "I need to do A, B, and C", which are usually the mundane requirements of life like cleaning the house or paying the electricity bill, and still be able to then think "And I need to sit down at the computer for at least an hour and rework that scene, adding in what he writes in the letter to his dead dog".  Whatever A, B, and C  are, day to day, they are of course important. But not as important to me as being me, as expressing myself, writing down whatever I am thinking. I have to say "yes, I am a writer, and I need to let these things loose that are rampaging through my brain". So I write in my journal. Next, I take a long walk with my wife. Today, the sun rose against clouds, and the world was this insane color, first gold then pink then gold again. It was like being in a Maxfield Parrish Painting.

Next, I help Lisa get ready for work, then I write this blog. And that is my morning routine. I recommend it. There is something to be said for doing what makes you happy first thing. Coffee, writing, walking, nature, love, and more writing. That does not suck. I can take most of what the world has to sling at me when I am able to do those simple things.

So. Week two of Return of the Blog, and it feels right. You know how some things just feel right? How, from the moment you start, there is this sense of being where you are supposed to be, doing what you are supposed to be doing? I feel like that with this blog. I don't want to think about it too much beyond that, as over thinking can lead to some really bad writing, some phoney, convoluted poop. I think it was Aristotle who wrote "To over think is to create a lot of bullshit". 

He was wise.

What else? Well, had our first cast meeting for Wizard of Oz last night. Very exciting. I forget how awesome that story is, how bizarre and clean and scary and fantastical. My cast is excellent, and I feel like we are about to take an incredible journey together. Also, in two days, I head to the Austin Film Festival. Which feels to me like going to Disneyland. A whole week, focused on screenwriting and movies. Panels, pitches, parties. As Aristotle also wrote, "Fuck yeah". 

I don't know why I felt compelled to give my daily routine to you all today. Honestly, when I write this blog, I don't prep at all. I just sit down and write whatever pops into my head. Today it was my routine. Tomorrow it might be a treatise on the joys of ascribing foul language to the greats. Who knows? Only The Shadow. 

I think that's it. For the moment. Need more coffee. More music. To go over my pitches for The Belvedere Jungle, American Spirits, Burning the Old Man, and Out of the Past. I have to run errands. You know, A, B, and C.  And then I have rehearsal for Holiday Inn up at StageDoor Theatre in Conifer. That show is going well, and that place is special. Full of energy and magic. In fact, both the Scarecrow and Dorothy in my upcoming Oz are former students from StageDoor. On top of that, a Jitterbug and an Ozonian are former students from the Denver JCC. How cool is that? One of the greatest things about teaching is when your students grow up and start to excel, to work in the field you teach. It's quite amazing. As amazing as the sunlight was this morning, turning the world into a mystical experience.

On that happy note, I shall go forth. 

Here's a song. It's The Jitterbug, a song deleted from the original movie but put back in for the stage performances of The Wizard of Oz. Dance, you maniacs, dance.

BLUE FRIDAY

Dreamt of this strange temple of sorrow. I was in a line with people I know, or have known through out my life. We were in a long line that stretched back as far as the eye could see, in front of what looked like, or rather felt like in that way things feel in dreams, a church or temple. I was at the front of the line, over to the side. As each person from my life got to the front of the line, a person in some kind of pain would be brought out of the temple and placed in front of those in line. Then a voice would ring out, telling everyone what was ailing the person in pain. "Brain tumor". "AIDS". "The Virus". And so on. 

This went on for a while. Then a kid, a boy of about 12, was brought out. He was clearly in great pain, and it looked like he had been through several operations. His parents were on either side, weeping. It reminded me of The Pieta by Michelangelo. Only sadder. The voice spoke.

"He is racked with pain. He has many afflictions. It has not been detected yet, but a cancer will slowly kill him in the coming months and years".

His parents lost it.

I had that weird thing where, overcome with sorrow, I try not to cry, which only makes it worse. It's like clinging to the last shred of sanity before giving over to complete and utter dismay. My friends in the line, a couple who divorced many years ago but in the dream were the age they were when I met them, turned to me and told me I had to tell the parents of the sick child what was going on, because in their grief they couldn't hear what the voice had said.

I couldn't. I just held on by a thread, so very sad.

Then the alarm went off and I awoke to a chilly Friday morning.

I do come across a lot of sorrow, and have my whole life. I think that is true to greater and lesser degrees for all of us. Am I telling myself to stop holding the sadness in? Am I telling myself that when I let it out, which I do in my writing probably most of all, to address the truth of our pain and suffering? Was it a reflection of what I have seen of late, people angry and lost and scared, feeling powerless as day after day and moment after moment, strangers tell us of another tragedy while we stand in line, waiting for our own particular pain to be presented to us?

I don't know. "Dreams are toys," as Shakespeare wrote in The Winter's Tale, "And they can fuck with you". 

Whatever the reason, it resonated with me and I feel more connected to reality after experiencing it. And I still find life magical and amazing and joyous, even with all the pain and suffering. Indeed, I think the pain and suffering necessitates our need to revel, to eat, drink and be merry- for tomorrow we die and today is probably going to have a lot of rough patches. 

So let's put on some music that elevates our mood. Let's hug the ones we love. And let's be honest about what is going on out there and inside our souls, about our sadnesses and about our joys. Let us relish this life while we can.

Wow. Deep thoughts. A Blue Friday. 

Maybe this song, a cover of New Order's Blue Monday by Orkestra Obsolete, will cheer us all up.

LORD HELP ME I CAN'T CHANGE

I am thinking of change this morning. Our resistance to it. Our need of it. And how Change could not give two shits about what we think, want, and/or need. Change comes at all times. Change is really synonymous with life. We are in a constant state of flux, whether we like it or not. A lot of it that flux is in the "or not" category. Physically, we are nothing more than a mass of atoms and molecules and so forth, all in constant movement. We grow, hit our peak early in life, then slowly hit our not peak. And that one sucks, but I think we age because the universe knows that if we didn't we would pretend that nothing ever happens, nothing changes, nothing evolves. And that, as Socrates once said, is bullshit.

And I don't always feel this way. But I do today. My outlook has changed. 

See what I did there?

I think about the bands I love the most. And the thing they have in common is that they change. They don't try to recreate their first album. They create the album or song or concert they are working on at that moment. They navigate the room they are in, and don't try to pretend it's a different room. Often, when a musician or band comes out with a new sound, feel, attitude, the fans freak out. At least at first. We want the music to make us feel like we did when we heard it the first time. I think what we really want is to be the people we were when we heard it the first time. But those people have gone Elsewhere and are playing hide and go seek in a graveyard in another dimension. 

Now, for me, if I am in a phase of my psychic moon that allows for change, embraces it, I listen to the new sounding album for a bit, and after awhile I fall in love with it and now want the band to make me feel like I do at that moment again and again. And the cosmic dance of funk continues.

I think about the planet, and how right now the world is seriously fucked because a lot of us are resistant to changing our lives or lifestyles, which have created an atmosphere that heats up and changes everything is really nasty ways, leading to oceans rising, forests burning, species dying off, and so on. By resisting change, we bring about greater change.

Put another way, we are stupid.

We really are. And one thing that doesn't seem to change is that we hate being told we are stupid, so very much. But sometimes, we need to be told we are being stupid. Foolish. Ill advised. 

The doesn't change either. The way, if something is said in a nicer sounding way, we more easily accept it. 

Ego. Fucking ego. Not only a poorly written bad guy in Guardians of the Galaxy vol. w, but a dangerous aspect of our humanity that, while essential to being a human being, can and often does get us into a lot of trouble.

We need change. We fear change. We love change. We hate change. 

I think we are all crazy. And I love us all. I do. I think that is about the only way to deal with things, before anything else. Accept and love and forgive and move on. I think the more crap you have thrown at you in your life, the more you need to do that. Not more, maybe, but the clearer the need for it. 

And that's difficult to do. 

But whenever I've managed to do that, I have been rewarded with peace and love and understanding.

So. Today, if possible, don't be like the dude in Freebird who sings about how he can't change, the Lord help him he can't change. Because he was lying. He was changing as he sang. He is changing still. And so are all of us. 

I feel like maybe that was all a bit preachy. But isn't all writing a bit preachy, on some level?

Okay. On to meetings, teaching. more meetings. And change. Evolution. Life.

Here's a song. It's Changes, by Bowie. 

MY PERMANENT COSTUME

Halloween is almost here. My favorite time of year. Crisp skies, leaves changing color, lots of monster movies, what's not to love? On top of that, the Giants are in the playoffs, going up against their ancient rivals, the Dodgers. Among the things I miss the most about being a kid, I miss Halloween and trick-r-treating. We'd cover a huge area in San Jose back then, and I would fill at least three pillow cases with candy by the end of the night, then go home, divide the goods up, trade with my fellow ghouls, and stay up late watching Creature Features. In my mind, every Halloween was on a Friday or Saturday, every time the weather was perfect, and the candy bars were all full size. 

What is it about dressing up and acting like a monster, vampire, zombie, pirate, and so on that is so satisfying? Wish fulfillment? Escape? Madness?

Now, way way back, I also thought the Moon was full of green werewolves with bat wings for ears and that when said Moon was full, they'd fly out, coming down to Earth to dine on anyone fool enough to be outside. On top of that, the Boogie Man lived up there too. In my mind, the Boogie Man was a psychotic variation on Chef Boy-ar-dee, with a huge butcher knife, but he would come out from mirrors, so those were to be avoided.

I had some issues, I suppose.

Still, I'd like to go trick-r-treating in that far away land of Back Then. 

I think my writing is all an attempt to do just that. To fill the world with absurd monsters, plucky young heroes, and candy. I did this Twitter thing today, called ScreenPit, where you tweet out a logline for a movie or limited series of TV pilot. My four tweets were:

Kelly McAllister

@rkmcallister

·

3h

AMERICAN SPIRITS When her two best friends drastically change overnight, an idealistic young woman is drawn into a paranormal mystery surrounding a dark force taking over her hometown.

BOOGIE MAN A deaf woman who can communicate with the dead teams up with an obnoxious Paranormal Reality TV host to fight a homicidal ghost.

BURNING THE OLD MAN While taking their father’s ashes to Burning Man, a high strung young man and his estranged brother break down in the desert and are forced to confront their complicated past.

THE BELVEDERE JUNGLE Coming of age story of a gifted boy who escapes into wild fantasies to escape his dysfunctional, alcoholic home. Notice a trend? Everything is either a scary movie or someone trying to fix the past.

They say as a writer, you need to find your voice. My voice is a wolf howling Angry Young Man by Styx, in monotone.

Oh! Speaking of writing, I was working on Belvedere Jungle, going over the story arc, them, tone, and all that. When I write, I do a lot of rewrites, which usually involves lots of staring at the screen, listening to music, staring at the screen, cleaning the house, staring at the screen, reading a new book, and staring at the screen. And now and then, some actual writing.

So, I'm doing just that, and for some reason I decide to finally read Doctor Sleep. And the first thing in it, the first damn thing, is a quote about letting go of anger. Which is basically what the main character in Belvedere Jungle learns to do over the course of the story. It seems not like such a big deal now that I write it down, but at the time it seemed to me a sign from the Writing Gods that I was on the right path, I was where I needed to be, and all we well.

I am a magic thinker. A fool. Me.

Still, I do take it as a sign, silly as that may sound. I have chosen the Foolish Magic Thinker for my permanent costume, so what else can I do?

I hope you have chosen yourself a good costume as well. One that thrills you, at times frustrates you, but that fits you like a glove and brings joy to your weary heart on those long days that always manage to find you.

And that you avoid mirrors and green werewolves when the moon is full.

Here's a song. It's a cover of Warren Zevon's Werewolves of London by Reina del Cid & Toni Lindgren. Hope you dig it. And if you do the Twitter thing, go and give my tweets some love.

SUCKERS AND HOPE

Day Two of the Comeback, starring yours truly as the playwright/actor/director/screenwriter/school teacher/full time lunatic/Stephen King fan/Mystic/Left Foot of Sasquatch. Yes. That last one works for me. I am the Left Foot. And that foot dances. It is my official title for Sasquatch Productions, my production company that's been around for a few years now, and one of those things that has felt right from the moment of inception to the right now. 

I think sticking with things that make you happy is a good thing to do, but somehow not something we manage to do enough in our lives. We stay at jobs we don't like all that much. We stick it out in relationships that are lopsided, unhealthy, or worse. We smile and nod at friends who inform us that they have "done some research" and know a few things about medicine that we don't. We patiently wait for the powers that be, who have profited for generations by exploiting the planets resources with little to no remorse or concern, to finally do the right thing. And then, after putting up with whatever particular bullshit we are putting up with for far too long, we lash out at some other, easier target, and think we have spoken our truth. 

At least it seems that way to me.

As you can probably tell, I listened to the news this morning while making my toast and coffee. There was a story about Southwest Airlines cancelling thousands of flights, and vehemently denying it had anything to do with their pilots, who seem to have all drunken the proverbial Kool Aid of Dipshits and are protesting vaccine mandates. 

Because freedom.

The above is from Easy Rider, written by Terry Southern, Dennis Hopper, and Peter Fonda. That speech hit me like a mack truck the first time I heard it, and it has only gotten more resonant with me the longer I have lived in this world. Yet another example of writing, of art, helping me understand the world I live in. Not that I didn't already suspect that what that speech says it true. I did. But it articulated that truth. Gave it some definition. And better still, some humanity.

In the movie, right after that scene, a bunch of drunken local yahoos show up and kick the shit out of all three characters. Nicholson's character gets killed. 

Yay freedom.

It just seems like people are determined to prove Barnum right, that there is indeed a sucker born every minute, and all you need to do is cater to their fears and hopes, give them a straw man, woman, or government cabal to blame their ills on, and you can do whatever you want. 

Okay. Enough. I could rant on and on about this subject, and I am sure there will be more on this soon, right here in River City, with a capital R that rhymes with Gar, that's a type of fish. 

What else? I am listening to a playlist curated by Edgar Wright, put out to promote his upcoming film Last Night in Soho. The list is called Edgar Wright's Soho Nights, and you can find it on Spotify and Apple Music. I love it. All these great tunes that have an inherent grooviness. I dig the movies of Mister Wright. I'd like him to direct one of my scripts. I think he would get my style. 

I am sorry if I went to the dark side up there. I'm just worried about our nation, the planet, my street. All of it. I love being alive so much. I love music and people and trees and oceans. And music and movies. And I am fairly certain we could have a really great thing going on here on Earth, if not for the Great Greedy Goon Squad. 

Happy things: I am working on a pitch for a ghost story movie. I have several to choose from, as I love scary movies, and have written a ton. There's one about a deaf woman who learns she can communicate with the dead after going to a seance for a cheesy reality show in the hopes of talking with her deceased sister. There's one about a high school theatre group that find out just how deadly it can be to go against superstitions. There's another about a forgotten factory town in the Rust Belt betting taken over by a couple of obnoxious ghosts who treat everyone like shit, drink like fish, fuck everything in sight, and have an overblown sense of how awesome they are. The town falls in love with them and do their best to emulate the ghosts' nasty behavior. 

I am leaning towards that last one. It's working title is American Spirits. I hope to be able to pitch it at this ghosty story pitch party at the Austin Film Festival. I put my name in the hat, now it's just a waiting game. 

On top of those projects, I have another one, a variation on a writing assignment I did a few years back, a sort of mash up of Men in Black and Finding Bigfoot. 

I find happiness, and understanding, in stories about monsters, possession, and madness. Holding the mirror up to the world and all that, I suppose. Not that I focus solely on the negative. No. A good story, I believe, is one that shows the world is all its glory as well as all its shame. And there is a lot of glory. A lot of goodness and joy and magic. Yin and Yang, duality of nature, Suckers and Hope, and on and on.

Wow. Meandering thoughts today. Well, that's where I am, and so I write it. I hope you all find compassion today, and humor, and a cool set of music to pick you up when you are low.

Here's one. It's Dusty Springfield doing Spooky.

LET'S SEE WHAT FATE BRINGS US

As Robert Plant said, it's been a long time sing I rock-n-rolled-n-blogged. But I have had several people tell me that the blog helped them get through the shut down, and that made me think maybe there is merit to my blog beyond just me letting my thoughts land on this electronic page. Also, I felt like writing on it again. So here I am, rock me like a hurricane, to use another song reference. I think most of my language is either a song or movie or tv reference of some type. Books too, and a bit of poetry. And of course theatre. I suppose we all are quoting something we heard or read at all times, making verbal collages of our memories. 

In any event, I am here again, with more of said verbal collages for you all to read. I hope you dig it. I hope I dig it. I hope. I hope. I hope. That's a reference to Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption, the short story by Stephen King made in to the movie The Shawshank Redemption, one of the few film adaptations of a book I thought did it right. I love Stephen King, always have. Since I was around twelve and got handed a copy of Night Shift. Something about the way he describes people and places resonates with me. Makes me think we live in the same world, experience life in a similar way. I ate up his novels as quickly as I could for many years. I remember camping at Pinecrest Lake with my buddy Chris Carver and his family and reading The Shining, and getting completely lost in that story. The fact that the main character is a father losing himself to alcoholism probably contributed to my immersion in that one seeing as it was something I had witnessed and was still witnessing when I read that story. On top of that, King has a clear love of rock-n-roll, which I do as well. And he quotes some awesome writers, usually at the start of a chapter, or by having some character in one of his stories talk about a book they've read. I never would have read Watership Down if not for it being mentioned in, I think, The Stand. 

If you haven't read The Shining or The Stand, please do. Right now. I'll wait.

Okay. Everyone back? Good.

Moving on. Somehow I went to Stephen King. Maybe it's because it's Halloween time. Or because I am speaking of writing, and he is one of my heroes. I read his book On Writing over the summer, and was reminded yet again of how much I adore his work. I am fairly certain I would not be who I am, or communicate in the way I do, if I had not read so much Stephen King growing up. No doubt, there is a whole generation of people who speak the way they do, think the way they do, in part due to The Hunger Games. Or the Harry Potter series. Or Percy Jackson. You get the idea.

I wonder if anyone thinks a little bit differently because of what I've wrote? I suppose that is something I can't worry about all that much, or I'll become like a self conscious actor, unable to be in the moment, constantly second guessing my each and every word.

Well, sorry if I've made you think things... No. I'm not sorry. Not if I made you think, or feel, or do something in your life. Unless you've become a serial killer or some other terrible thing. In that case, I am very sorry and hope you stop.

So. A quick update on me. I am working on several shows right now: Holiday Inn at StageDoor; Spike at the Mercury Cafe; Harry Potter at Reel Kids; and The Wizard of Oz with my company, Sasquatch Productions, at the PACE. 

I'm also going to the Austin Film Festival next week. Very excited. My script The Belvedere Jungle is a Second Rounder there, as is my play Burning the Old Man. I'm going to take part in a Pitch Fest, go to a ton of panels, and eat lots of breakfast burritos. Beyond that, let's see what fate brings me.

Let's see what fate brings all of us. So much going on in the world. Trump fans still living in an alternate universe. Global warming getting worse. Pandemic not gone yet. We got a lot of fixing to do. A lot of anger to let go of. A ton of love to find. We can do it. I know we can. But we are still in that time of flux. I do not know when it will end or where it will lead us. But I do think writing, singing, acting, laughing, and loving will get us where we all need to go. 

Here is a song for you. It's See the World by Gomez. I dig it. Also, if you get a chance and are in Denver, go see: Young Frankenstein at the Vintage; Steel Magnolias at Cherry Creek Rep; and Murder on the Orient Express at StageDoor. And read some damn Stephen King!