Monday comes, and is different than it used to be. Long ago and far away, Monday was the Day of Dragging My Ass; the Day of Droop; Ragnorok Here on Earth. But I think that had more to do with my bad habits and wild ways than with the day of the week. Indeed, pretty much every morning was like that.
How sad was that?
We all agree life is too damn short. There is never enough time spent with loved ones, ourselves, nature, or anything really. And yet, most of us manage to gripe about Mondays, Rainy days, Hump Day, Tax Day, Turkey Day- you name it.
In my opinion, life is too short for complaining about it being Monday. You're tired? Don't want to go back to work? Boo hoo. Grow up. Enjoy the day anyway. Here's a photo of polar bears in an abandoned weather station. Lighten up.
So yay Monday. Hello, I love you, and let's get this week going.
I probably feel this good because I felt so crappy last week. Had a cold of some sort present itself, then got my second Shingles shot later in the week, which kicked my ass three ways to Wednesday. It was like how people getting off of heroin is presented on most tv shows and movies. Hot sweats, aches, and a bit of delirium.
And this was a week I opened a pair of one acts, was supposed to start rehearsals for The Wedding Singer up in Conifer, as well as more performances of The Wizard of Oz down at the PACE.
Yowsa.
But enough of me and my woes.
I want to talk a little about Dopesick, currently streaming on Hulu. It's fantastic, engrossing, tragic, uplifting, and mind blowing. It's based on the book of the same name, and is all about the Oxycontin epidemic and greed and need and human beings and all the crazy things we do. It is well written, never dull, and has some of the best actors out there doing some amazing work. Watch it. Now.
My wife wondered, after we finished the series, if maybe one of the reasons there are folks out there who are vaccine hesitant is a result of the lies that Purdue Pharma shoved down people's throats via the doctors who prescribed their poison.
Maybe we should separate money and medicine. To paraphrase Jesus, money and the constant want of it by powerful assholes fucks up the world over and over.
Okay. That's my sermon for the day. Now I am off to work on Indie script for possible shoot in Texas this fall. More on that soon.
Also, my production of Wizard of Oz got some good reviews. You can read them HERE and HERE.
And you can find info about the pair of one acts, which we call Dates with Death, HERE.
Oh, and about the Book of Boba Fett. Last week's episode was all about the Mandolorian, and was exquisite. A must see.
Here is today's song. It's I Don't Like Mondays by The Boomtown Rats.
A cold Wednesday morning. I am sitting in my den, listening to the soundtrack to a movie that was once called Star Wars but is now called Episode Four: A New Hope. I love it. I first saw Star Wars as an 11 year old boy, and it was love at first sight. Actually, I fell in love with it the first time I saw the trailer. We all did. I remember it so clearly. It was at the old Century 22 theatre in San Jose, one of those movie dome type structures so popular in the 1970s. Back then, there were a lot of movies that were sort of depressing. It seemed like whatever the film, by the end of it, the main character would either die or sell out or learn something sad and depressing. Not that they were bad movies. A lot of them were amazing, and hold up well. Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Bonnie and Clyde. Who Slew Auntie Roo?
Still, there was this sense of dread. Or corruption. And no wonder. America at that point in time was dealing with itself. We had just had the Viet Nam War, the whole 1960s, with it's cultural upheavals and generation gaps. Watergate came along, and everyone was either angry or high or drunk or otherwise lost.
As for me, my family was a few years into a very dysfunctional time of alcoholism and denial.
Things were bleak.
And then along comes this film, full of heroes and wonder and space magic.
And the Force.
Now that was something appealing. A sort of marital art that anyone can tap into, a power that connects all the universe, every rock and being and speck of dust.
I saw that movie 21 times in the theatre.
Where has that sense of wonder gone? I don't think I've ever lost it. I am a sucker for a good story, a rousing heroes journey, and all things fantastic. Hence my love of the Lord of the Rings movies, the Harry Potter series, and so on.
As for the Star Wars franchise, it has become... well, not the same. It's a whole universe. Some of it is still spot on and brilliant. Some not so much. After watching and loving the first two seasons of The Mandalorian, I was very excited for The Book of Boba Fett.
It sucks.
A lot.
But then I started watching The Bad Batch, an animated series following a group of clones in the Star Wars universe.
I fucking love it.
A lot.
Wonder is where you find it. And usually not where you expect. It's in that movie you stumble across that already started but grabs your attention. It's in a conversation with a barista while you wait for your coffee. It's in the act of writing a blog.
So off to today. I also think you should all watch Dopesick on Hulu. It's a bit depressing, so watch that, and then cleanse the palate with The Bad Batch.
And May the Force Be with You. Always.
Here's Luke watching the double sunset, a moment that spoke to the world of yearning.
Monday morning, cold and bright. Clear as can be, really. Took our morning walk, and the mountains were so perfectly visible it didn't seem real. Snow capped and pink in the dawn, they seemed to exude glory and hope and magic, while maintaining the aloof mystery that nature keeps at all times to remind us we are but fleas on the backs of giants. I'm sitting in my little den, listening to suggested songs from Apple Music, an eclectic mix based on what I've played before, a little Courtney Barnett, a bit of Jane's Addiction. The songs wander my mind, mixing with the coffee and toast.
And I stare at the screen.
I jumped back into this blog when the lockdown happened. Back in that other dimension known as the past. Isn't time fucked up these days? In every sense, I think time has gone out of joint, that we've all taken Billy Pilgrim's cue and gotten unhinged, bouncing back and forth from then to then, now to now, with no rhyme or reason or proper sense of the season. Some days last a month. Some months come and go unnoticed.
And I don't even care that much that I live in a different universe than I once did. I still hear the music. I still see the mountains. I still enjoy the warmth of my covers when the alarm goes off each day. And somehow, even within this disjointed timey-wimey reality, I wake up three minutes before the alarm, with out fail. So maybe somewhere in my brain, in my soul, in this Elseworld, a little timepiece clicks on in precisely measured steps.
Who knows?
Whatever the case, I am working on several projects, and I think the next chunk of this blog will be about a new script I'm working on, my journey while I create it, and all that jazz.
The script has no title as of yet, but I am leaning towards Kill Me Now. It's loosely based on my play Burning the Old Man. And when I say loosely, I mean it.
But the spirit is there. The essence. The idea of how we are all haunted and crazy and in need of love. Not very new, but what is? I find most movies and shows that claim over and over how they are new and different are anything but that. Let's face it, when someone has to tell you what they are, how what they are selling is the next step in evolution, it is more often than not a bunch of bullshit wrapped in glittery paper.
So Kill Me Now. Set in Texas. Funny, sad, maybe exciting. It's the result of meeting a director at the Austin Film Festival and hitting it off and deciding we should do something together. From there, director introduces me to producer, we have some phone calls, and next thing you know, I'm working on getting a draft out by the end of the month.
End of the month. Fuck. That's soon. And in this month, I've opened a large production of Wizard of Oz down at the PACE, am about to open a pair of one acts, and began a high school production of the Wedding Singer up at StageDoor.
The one acts start Thursday, at Chaos Bloom, a little performance space on Broadway here in Denver. The first is a play called Spike, and it is intense and brilliant and written by my good friend Shannon Brady. It's about a woman coming to terms with her past in the form of an old friend coming to town on a dark mission. The other one act is Hela and Troy, by yours truly. It's about what happens when the Norse Goddess of Death goes speed dating.
That's me today. Hope to see you at the theatre, or on the street so we can gaze at the mountains in wonder, or in my eclectic mind as I write these stories of lunatics and poets.
Until then, here's a song from this mornings suggested playlist. It's I've Been Down by Haim, a group I've been listening to a lot lately as I just discovered them.
So a year ago, things were bad. The riot, of course, Trump still in office trying to become President for Life, and the Corona Virus all over. A lot has changed, and a lot hasn't. I watched President Biden's speech this morning, and I thought he said all the right things, but I wonder if it will change any minds. People seem determined to believe what they want, regardless of what is right in front of them. I've seen this on a macro and micro level, over and over, particularly this past year.
When I was a kid, there was this Popeye cartoon where Wimpy, the burger loving friend of Popeye, decided it would be better to be Popeye for some reason, so he got a disguise to make him look exactly like Popeye. And of course he runs into the real Popeye, and they get into this argument over who the real Popeye is. From one level, this made me question reality and if we are truly who we think we are. But on a very basic level, I found it hilarious because the real Popeye actually engaged in this debate with someone pretending to be him.
How can there be a debate?
I figured Popeye was your typical grown up, stupid and crazy. I know it is a bit harsh, but I think also accurate. We got a lot of stupid and crazy going on these days. Biden won. The virus is real, and killing people every day. The vaccine works, and doesn't have microchips to take over your mind. (also, if there are microchips that can take over your mind, it's game over anyway). Climate change is real, and the fires everywhere are real, and the super storms, and the droughts, and the floods. The rich are super rich and the poor are super poor.
We have a lot of Wimpy's lying their asses off to get free hamburgers, at the expense of friendship, honesty, and integrity.
All those things are real and terrible, and if we don't do something, we are toast. And not delicious cinnamon toast, or fresh sour dough, buttered with a bit of sea salt on top.
No. I mean Dodo bird toast.
It is frustrating, because, stupid and crazy as we all are, I do love the human race. We have so much potential. We make music and art and poetry. We dance. We laugh. We hug.
I felt this a year ago, and I will feel it a year from now. Love and sorrow. Hope and fury.
So. On we go.
Love to you all. Happy New Year. If you haven't, please, pretty please with sugar on top, get vaccinated. Do everything you can to address climate change. Be nice to strangers. Listen to music. Dance in the kitchen.
And if you come across someone who looks just like you, or who insists up is down and wrong is right, do not let them have your hamburgers.
Here's a song. It's Ladyfingers, by Herb Alpert and The Tijuana Brass, which a student played for me the other day and gave me hope and joy and a belief there are still good things to come.
Tomorrow is New Year's Ever already? What the fuck happened?
I know, I swear a lot. I use language that some consider vulgar. I find that odd, considering the world we live in, the things that are acceptable, and where we are as a species in general. I find plenty in this world vulgar. Commercialization. Deforestation. Poverty. The Great Economic Divide. The Purposeful Misleading of the Masses by Corporate Assholes for Various Nasty Reasons that Make No Sense. The bizarre use of capitalization by me in the previous sentence. I just can't get all that worked up over words like fuck and shit, when words like anti-vaxxer are commonplace.
So fuck it.
Anyhow. Was talking this early morning about the song Happy New Year, Prince Can't Die Again by Mac McCaughan, which came out shortly after the election of the Orange Goon back in 2016. Ryan was of the opinion that the song seems quaint now, after the past few years. And I suppose in a way, he's right. As terrible as we thought the world was after the election of a sexist, racist, greedy, creepy man as POTUS, the world has gotten even more terrible, crazy, and sad.
Then again, I think the song is more about saying "well, yes, things suck, but we must move forward", and while sorrow and uncertainty will surely await us, so will friendship and bravery in the face of insurmountable odds.
So Happy New Year's, January 6 can't happen again. And neither can the Donner Party. Or the Great Depression. Or World War II. Or The Phantom Menace. Lots of shitty things have passed on.
What strange new worlds await us? What triumphs and tragedies? What challenges will I give myself, cause for myself, or awake in other people?
This past year, I've worked on several scripts, went to the Austin Film Festival, directed many shows at many places, traveled, have a huge internal family fight, got some exciting happy family news, lost the best dog in the history of dogs, and more. Like most years, when I step back and look at them, it had a lot of life crammed into it, top to bottom.
In looking at the past year, I find yet again that when I don't give up, stay true to my vision, and strive to maintain some sense of dignity, things work out for the best. Pretty much all regrets are for things I didn't do out of fear or timidity. Fortune favors the bold and all that.
Then again, the rioters and terrorists who stormed the capitol on January 6 were also bold. Assholes, morons, and shitty. But still, bold.
So, be bold, but don't be shitty. Good mantra.
Also, love it all. This world, full of maniacs and misfortune, is still magical and full of wonder. The stars come out every night. Music is composed. Children laugh. Birds fly, to quote a song from my high school days. Love, actually, is everywhere.
Here's a song from that last line, and the movie it references. Also, if we get to perform, and who knows based on Omicron and all, please come see Wizard of Oz at PACE in January and February. It's not a kiddie show or a recreation of the movie. It's a fucking great story, told well.
Here's the song. It's God Only Knows by the Beach Boys
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.
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.
