Morty & Jesus

Way back in the spring of 2008, George W. Bush sent me $600. It was part of his "stimulus" that was designed to get the economy working again. Last time I checked, it didn't work, but that's beside the point. I was still happy to take his money and I decided that the best way to spend it was to make a short film. I had written a script for a short about a year prior called "Morty & Jesus" and, after dusting it off, I figured $600 would just about cover it. So, I borrowed a camera, bought some props, hired a cameraman (the very talented Chris Hilleke), rented a space, and shot it. The premise of the film is Jesus comes back to earth and decides to mount a comeback. He enlists the help of super agent Morty Goldberg and together they try to figure out how to get Jesus' name back out there. Now, most people who know me know that I am not m uch for religion. In fact, I think religion is one of the most destructive things we as human beings have ever come up with. That's not to say I dismiss spirituality, but religion as an organization has, in my opinion, done more harm than good over the centuries. It's just another way to divide people up into groups and choose sides, which is kind of the opposite of what all the major religions (supposedly) preach. Whether you believe in Jesus or not, the message he presents is actually quite simple: just be cool. That's it. You be nice to me, I'll be nice to you. Simple, direct, uncomplicated. You can find that sentiment in pretty much any other belief system, but we still kill each other over which set of "gods" we're supposed to take that advice from, when in reality we should just follow the advice. Good advice is good advice, it shouldn't matter which religion it comes from. "Morty & Jesus" is my attempt to articulate some of those feelings I have about religion, along with a skewering of the Hollywood system, which is as almost as frustrating and confounding as religion. I entered the film back in the 2008 Sidewalk Film Festival, but this is the first time it has appeared online. Just click the link below to check it out. I welcome comments and criticism alike, so enjoy!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zOMk1xmTXTE

Who You For?

Way back in 1987, my family moved to Alabama. Being an Air Force brat, moving to a new state and enrolling a new school was nothing new. Every time my dad got a new assignment, our entire family uprooted and moved thousands of miles to a strange land, where I quickly had to adapt and learn the customs of the locals. On my first day of school at Stanhope Elmore High in Millbrook, Alabama, I found myself sitting alone at lunch in the cafeteria. It was a rainy and cold January and I was a lowly freshman, surrounded by unfamiliar faces and unsure of my place in the tiny school. I had just moved from California, so in my mind this small town school was about as backwards as you could get. As I sat there eating my lunch in solitude, a stranger walked up to me and said, "Hey, kid, you new here?" I nodded. He replied, "Who you for?" I had no idea what he was talking about, so I responded, "For what? What are you talking about?" The kid looked at me like I was a moron. "Auburn or Alabama," he said in a defiant tone, as if I knew what that meant. "I don't know," was all I could say. I had no idea what he was talking about. He scoffed at me and said, "Well, you better pick one." Then he walked away.

This was my introduction to the rivalry that is Auburn vs. Alabama. I learned very fast that pretty much everything in this state revolves around the eternal competition between these two schools. And I do mean everything. It baffles me to no end that marriages have crumbled, friendships have been destroyed, and self-worth has been determined by which of these two schools one roots for. Not only that, but I have found that the most vocal and vitriolic of fans are usual ones that have never even gone to college! But, it's part of the culture here and so, in my attempt to fit in (as I have tried to do in every place I've lived), I decided to root for Auburn. Why? Because I liked their colors better. Arbitrary? Sure. But then again, what about this rivalry isn't arbitrary? I don't even like football all that much, so it made little difference to me who won the Iron Bowl every year. I never lived in one place long enough to develop an affinity for any team, college or pro. So it always seemed odd that people in Alabama get so riled up about this sort of thing. But, that's what they do, so who am I to judge? I'm just a transfer student so to speak. I get a lot of laughs watching the super-fans on both sides spend time, effort, and energy trying to tear down the other side in the name of "sportsmanship" and "bragging rights." If people need something to belong to, who am I to judge?

Well, all that changed today when I read about "Al from Dadeville" who claimed on some radio call-in sports show that he had intentionally poisoned a couple of 130 year-old oak trees in Toomer's Corner, Auburn. I guess he was upset that Auburn won the national championship or some such nonsense, so he went out of his way to kill two perfectly harmless trees next to a drug store in a town he doesn't even live in. Sigh. Over the many years I've lived in Alabama, I've come to consider it my home. It's where my parents retired and bought a house. It's where I graduated high school. It's where I met my wife, and a host of friends I still have to this day. And I've tolerated the rivalry between Auburn and Alabama, mostly because it seemed like harmless fun that a bunch of locals used to identify themselves with. But this is the most ridiculous and absurd thing I have ever heard. Honestly. Some idiot in Dadeville hates Auburn so much he decided to kill a couple of trees? I doubt this asshat has ever set foot on a college campus (well, except for the one time he murdered those oaks in Toomer's Corner).

So if I could go back in time to that rainy day in 1987 and answer that kid who asked me, "Who you for?" my response would be, "The trees. Now fuck off. I'm trying to eat my lunch."

Write Now

Okay, where was I? Yeah, I don't remember either. I started this blog way back in 2005 when I was living in L.A., but I never could figure out what to write about, so I sort of lost interest. But back then I think I missed the point of keeping a blog. It's not about what you write, it's about actually writing, especially for someone like me who identifies himself as a writer. Or, at least I did identify myself as one. Back in the day, I used to love to write. In college I would stay up for hours writing sketches, scripts, plays, random gibberish, anything that entered my mind. I lorded over the blank page like a god, controlling the entire universe. Characters lived and died or loved and cried, depending on my mood at the time. I could create worlds and destroy civilizations with a few simple keystrokes. I could tell jokes, release my frustrations, or just go wild. But somewhere along the way, writing became a chore. It stopped being fun and became a task. I came to dread sitting at the computer, staring at the white negative space, beating my head against the wall as I tried to fill it in. I think it started when I was writing a script many years called "Random Order." It was my first attempt at writing a screenplay that I had the intention of making myself. I started writing it in the summer of 1998, with the hope of scrounging a few bucks together and shooting it with my friends. But along the way the script started getting attention from a few industry folks and suddenly my little project became (in my naive, inexperienced mind) an IMPORTANT PROJECT. I spent the better part of the next 6 years writing, re-writing, re-re-writing, changing, rearranging, adding, subtracting, and dividing my little movie script into something else. I spent nearly every waking moment of my life thinking about that script, and any free time I had was spent in front of a computer trying to coalesce the elements of my story into something I thought would attract Hollywood money and make me a SERIOUS FILMMAKER. And every time I printed a new draft off my printer, just as I thought I had finally cracked it, somebody else would come along and say, "Hey, we love your script, and we think we can find the money for you to make it! All you have to do is change this, this, that, and this one thing over here!" So off I would go, back to the computer and yet another draft. I had optioned it to 2 different producers at different times, each one claiming they could get it made. And all the while, I kept re-writing and re-writing. I stopped writing anything else, my narrow focus limited to seeing "Random Order" to the finish line. And when the last option ran out, I was no closer to seeing it get made than when I started. I must have written 15 drafts of that damn script over those 6 years. Some I was proud of, some I can't bear to read. Some make me physically sick to think about. All those late nights in isolation pounding at the keys taught me how (and how not) to write a screenplay. And they also taught me to hate writing. It was a hard, hard lesson to learn, one that I am still trying to come to terms with. Somewhere in that painful process, I stopped writing for me and started writing for other people. I spent all my time trying to make other people happy with my words instead of making me happy with them. So when the last option on my script expired in 2006, I sat down for one last draft. I tossed out everything I hated about the previous ones and, forgetting about budgets and other practical considerations, I wrote the script for the movie I wanted to see. I stripped away all the excess and distilled it down to the simple story I set out to tell in the summer of '98. And when it was done, I locked it in a drawer and haven't looked at it since. Ever since then, I have tried to recapture that spark I lost along the way, that spark that excited me about writing. I know it's still there somewhere, just waiting for me to fan the flames. I've written a few things here and there since then, but that passion I once had for writing has dimmed. It makes me sad sometimes, but maybe that happens to all writers. Over the years I have had dozens of other ideas for film scripts, some with enormous scope and Avatar-like budgets, others that I could shoot with a camcorder a 2 people in a single room. But every time I sit down to start writing them, I get flashbacks of what happened with "Random Order" and I freeze up. I get nervous that what happened before will happen again.

So flash-forward to the present day. I'm no longer living in L.A. I still love movies, but with a healthy dose of perspective. My experiences in the industry are too varied and insane to cover in this post, but suffice it to say my time in the film business taught me to treat it all with a liberal dose of skepticism. There is no rhyme or reason to why films get made and why they don't. It's all, if you'll pardon the expression, just random order. And I'm cool with that. And despite it all, I still want to make movies. I know a lot more about how to make them than I did back in 1998. A hell of a lot more. Making movies has been a dream of mine since I was 5 years old. It's all I know how to do, really. Every job I have ever had has in some way been preparing me for it. So I'm going to give it another shot. I'm even writing a screenplay again. It's been hard to ignore the pains of the past, but I'm working through it with each page. It's just something I have to do. Some people have to paint, some have to make music, and some have to become doctors. I have to make movies. I have to. It's just who I am. But I'm also a writer. And to ensure I don't start hating writing again, I'm re-opening this blog. This is where I'm going to come when the act of writing a screenplay starts to get to me. I'll use this space to write about anything and everything else. My likes, dislikes, opinions, interests, annoyances, and the like. I need an outlet to write for me again. Sure, the movie is for me, but I don't want to only write a screenplay. This is where all my other writing can go. I feel like the only way to reclaim my lost love of writing is to just write more. And often. There's no set topics, no rhyme or reason to what I might put here. It's just a place to put it.

Online Horror

I've been a little lax in the updates, but I plan to remedy that in the very near future. In the meantime, please re-direct your bowser to www.footprints-themovie.com and take a gander at what I've been spending my free time on lately.

More to come...

This Bites

That's never going to heal if you don't stop picking at it, Jake.

Making Tracks

They say you can't make a successful film in L.A. unless you have a big star in your movie. Well, we got one. The biggest star this side of the T-Rex from Jurassic Park. His name is Bigfoot and he's ready for his close-up...

Strange how it has all led to this. I never would have guessed 2 years ago when I came to this city that I would wind up making a killer bigfoot movie. But that's exactly what happened. Well, not a full-length movie, but if everything works out like I hope, that won't be too far behind. A lot of time, effort, and love went into this project, and for everyone that was involved in its creation, I have nothing but deep admiration and respect. The 4 day shoot that made up "Footprints" was, quite honestly, the most fun I've ever had working on a film. I only wish it could have lasted longer. I'm confident, though, that when the final result of all our efforts are finally seen, the dream of making a real movie will be realized. There were some amazing talents brought together to pull this off, not the least of which was our director, Hiro Koda. It was a blast watching him turn the words of the screenplay into reality. He knew what he wanted, knew how to get it, and never once did I see him not smiling on set. His enthusiasm was infectious, and that carried over onto the entire cast and crew. I've never seen a group of people having so much fun making a movie. It was exactly how this business SHOULD work. Just a bunch of friends getting together and shooting something. There was an energy surrounding this project that was palpable. Even though it was 40 degrees at night and everyone was bundled up tight, you could feel the warmth radiating from everyone. Man, we've got to do this again.

Only next time, we'll really flip a car over...

In Need of a Manicure

From the screenplay "Footprints"

MASSIVE SHARP CLAWS come out of nowhere and SLASH Willie Carl across the chest. BLOOD spews forth from the long gashes. Willie Carl SCREAMS, clutching his chest in agony.

Willie Carl slumps to the ground and painfully tries to crawl away, but a giant, hairy Creature blocks his path.

The Creature grabs Willie Carl by the ankle and drags him back, lifting him straight off the ground upside down.

Blood pours out of the wounds in Willie Carl’s chest like a waterfall. It cascades down his face. Willie Carl blinks through the blood, trying to see what it is that has him.

The Creature smells the blood and GRUNTS with a primitive satisfaction. It has what it’s looking for. Its powerful jaws open and...

IT TAKES A BITE OUT OF WILLIE CARL.

Willie Carl SCREAMS his last scream.

To be continued...

The Hills Are Alive

Inside a tiny workshop in Canoga Park, California, just off Alabama Ave. of all places, something big is taking shape. It's only clay, plaster, and paint at the moment, but little by little, a layer of laytex here and a clump of fake fur there, the pieces are coming together to create something big, something powerful, and something that will hopefully scare the bejeezus of everybody that comes into contact with it.

Or at least the ones who pay to see it.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. This is my first attempt at creating a monster, so you'll have to forgive me if I get a little excited. This all started back in February, when I wound up writing a script for an action/horror movie called "Footprints." A throwback to the horror movies of the 70s, "Footprints" is sort of a cross between "The Breakfast Club" and "Jurassic Park." A group of 7 teenagers are sent to a work camp far off in the woods during what would normally be their Spring Break. But instead of working off their punishment for acting up in school, the kids are attacked by violent creatures living in nearby mountain caves. Think "Jaws" on land with Bigfoots instead of sharks, and you get the idea. Not the normal kind of stuff I tend to write, but it was fun to do and turned out better than I hoped. And now, in just a few weeks, a very talented group of individuals will be turning this little Bigfoot idea into a full-blown trailer, with stunts, special effects, and all the bells and whistles. Sort of a sales pitch demo reel, to sell the idea to studios and other interested parties. But the coolest part of this whole process has been seeing the creature come to life. This clay model was designed by Gary Tunnicliffe, a Hollywood make-up artist responsible for Pinhead in the Hellraiser movies, the vampires in Blade, and a ton of others. Over the next couple of weeks, hair and paint will be added and a full-blown BIGFOOT will arrive. Stay tuned...

Katrina

I escaped. That's the only way I can describe the series of events over the last few days. I had been in New Orleans for less than a week, having just arrived to work on a film called "Deja Vu" for the better part of 4 months. I had moved into a nice hotel, bought groceries, and was getting ready to live in the Big Easy for the duration. However, my sister was in Montgomery with her new baby and I decided to drive up to visit her and my parents over the weekend. I left New Orleans on Friday night, traveling east on I-10, with little to no traffic to slow my journey. Sure, I had been watching the Weather Channel to see what Katrina might do, but it never really occurred to me that it might slam into where I was staying.

Boy, was I wrong.

I arrived in Montgomery late Friday night. I was greeted by my family and got to meet the newest edition to the clan, my nephew, Ben. I slept well in my parent's house, expecting to stay for a couple days, then drive back to New Orleans on Sunday to resume work at the start of the week. Those plans abruptly changed with a call from my boss, Robin, on Saturday morning. Katrina had picked up speed in the Gulf of Mexico and was now nearing Category 5 strength. And it was heading right for where I had been staying less than 24 hours before. The film company was chartering a plane that afternoon to fly the film crew out of town and back to Los Angeles. Robin told me to stay put in Montgomery and not try to head back to New Orleans. I-10 had been shut down and the Governor of Louisiana had issued a mandatory evacuation of the city. It was uncertain if the film would be able to continue. Hell, it was uncertain if the city itself would still exist after it was all said and done. Katrina was coming and there was nothing we could do but get out of the way.

A year ago, I was in Monroeville, Alabama working on a film called "Heavens Fall" when Hurrican Ivan barrelled through town. The heavens truly did fall on that day in September, bringing a temporary halt to our production and causing massive damage to the town itself. Thankfully, no one was killed, but it left an indelible mark on my life. It's ironic that the film I am working now is called "Deja Vu." Watching the news reports today about the damage and flooding Katrina has brought with her makes me sad, not simply for the shut down of the film, but for the devastation and loss of life. I was only in town to make a movie, but there are families shattered and communities ruined because of the fury of Mother Nature. And that's not even counting the impact Katrina has had on towns hit even harder, like Gulfport and Biloxi, Mississippi.

Things like this really put everything in perspective for me. Many people I have encountered in the film business concern themselves only with the film they are working on at the moment, believing it is the most important thing in the world to the detriment of everything else around them. And I will admit, I have been guilty of feeling that way on more than one occasion on more than one film. But movies are just movies. It's entertainment, nothing more. Katrina is the real deal. The impact she leaves behind is far more profound or important than any film.

One Giant Leap

What on earth happened to the U.S. space program? I was not alive during the space race of the 50's and 60's, but as a child I was endlessly fascinated by the triumphs made by our country during those heady years of exploration. I would spend countless hours reading about the endless competition between America and Russia in those days, fighting it out for control of the heavens. I would watch footage of President Kennedy's speech vowing to put a man on the moon by the end of the 60's and I imagined what it must have been like to be a part of that concerted effort to dream and do the impossible. The cynical adult in me realizes now that much of Kennedy's lofty ideals were motivated by a "biggest stick on the playground" mentality to show up the Communists, but the sheer notion of sending men from this planet to another world is too powerful of an idea to dismiss as just jingoistic posturing. There is something magical and wonderful about looking up at the moon and knowing that once upon a time, men from earth trod on its soil and looked back at us from afar. To this day, I still get choked up watching footage of the moon landings. For a brief, shining moment, we stepped out into the universe, fulfilling the promise of our species as bold explorers seeking out the unknown. The entire world watched those grainy images from the Apollo 11 cameras being beamed back to our living rooms, holding its breath in awe with the notion that there is something bigger at work in the cosmos than us. The universe is a vast, infinite canvas of marvelous wonders and on that day in July 1969, this planet was witness to that. But to me, the most amzing part of it all is, we actually pulled it off. Our primitive, infant civilization was able to rub enough sticks together to actually get off this rock we call home and go visit the one next door. And it was all done without desktop computers, internet access, and Starbucks coffee. Amazing.

So it brings me great sadness to read that the space shuttle program has been grounded again, thanks to a piece of foam insulation half the size of the laptop I'm writing this on. FOAM INSULATION??? 36 years ago, we sent men to the moon strapped to the top of a Saturn V rocket without major incident, and yet today we're losing spacecraft left and right because of FOAM INSULATION. I have nothing but respect for the astronauts who travel into space, and the men and women at NASA are nothing short of American heroes to me, but when pieces of the shuttle can break off and actually destroy the ship, it's time to rethink the whole Endeavour. The shuttle being grounded is heartbreaking, but what's even more heartbreaking is that it's still being flown at all. The space shuttle is outdated and has outlived its usefulness. It was a marvelous machine, but time has caught up with the great craft and like all used cars, it needs to be sold for parts to make room for a new car in the garage. NASA needs to stop trying to fix the shuttle and instead it needs to come up with something better, something safer, and something that will get us back out into space as quickly as possible. Exploring the heavens, for a brief, incredible moment, united the world in a way nothing else has. And with everything else happening in the world right now, we sure could use something like that again. But I hate to say it, that will never happen if we keep pinning our hopes and dreams on a 20 year old spaceship.

I wish Kennedy were still around. He'd get us off our asses and into space again.

Rooftop Fireworks

July 4, 2005. Sunset. Burbank, California. 229 years removed from the signing of a piece of parchment on which our forefathers proudly proclaimed, in a nutshell, "We're sick and tired of being hassled by the man." I was sitting on a rooftop just off Magnolia Ave, watching 3 different fireworks shows at the same time. To the north, just above the treetops, my friends and I could plainly see the colorful explosions coming from Starlight Bowl. To the south, Universal Studios was giving the tourists a spectacular light show. And not to be outdone, the Hollywood Bowl was getting in on the act, illuminating the eastern skies with some stunning, and no doubt expensive red rocket glares. Our necks got whiplash for the better part of 2 hours as each boom and flash made us whip around to each successive and random firework light up the dark skies over the San Fernando Valley. It was like watching a technicolor tennis match made of light and magic. And it was free.

Like we are.

Happy birthday, America.

It's Not Unusual

Tom Jones is the Man.

One of my earliest memories is repeated listenings of my Mom's scratchy LP of "Tom Jones' Greatest Hits" when I was 4 years old. Dad was stationed at Eielson Air Force Base near Fairbanks, Alaska, so my family was living among the mountains and pines of the north. It's a beautiful place, but it is so close to the North Pole that for several weeks during the winter, it gets dark at 2 in the afternoon. And I mean dark. For a 4 year old, that's a tad confusing. Seasame Street is not even half over and all of a sudden it's nighttime. Combine that with snow, ice, and -40 degree cold, going outside to play is not an option. And some days the weather was so bad there would be no TV reception. Nothing but snow and snow. So, in order to entertain her very hyper toddler (and keep her sanity intact), my Mom would play albums for me on the monstrous record player that took up an entire wall of our house. I would sit next to the enormous cabinet, my ear close to one of the enclosed speakers, and I would sing along with whatever it was Mom pulled from the record collection. And my Mom liked to listen to Tom Jones more than any of the other albums in her collection. A lot more. To put it another way, I knew all the words to "She's a Lady," "Delilah," and "What's New, Pussycat?" before I could tie my shoes. But, as much as I enjoyed singing along with Tom's Greatest Hits, I didn't understand why my Mom liked listening to him so much. That is, until last Saturday night.

Imagine if you will, hundreds of women, of every age, race, and height you can imagine, all transfixed by a hairy, sweaty welcoming singing on stage. They scream, they swoon, they sing along. And with every song comes another pair of panties sailing through the air, like Victoria decided to give away every last one of her secrets, hurling each of them at the stage with the sexual frenzy of a giddy teenager. This is the power of Tom Jones, my friends, power I witnessed first hand at the Greek Theater last Saturday night. Thanks to my friend Staci, and the tickets she bought me for my birthday, I had a 16th row view of this unbelievable spectacle. Tom had every woman in the audience eating out of his hand. A wink, a smile, an extra-long final note; Tom charmed and excited the lot, flashing his million dollar grin to the crowd, hypnotizing each and every lady with his smooth voice, his tight pants, and his profuse sweating (two words: Niagara Falls). But Tom's persistent perspiration didn't matter to the ladies. They were his, and no amount of moisture could sway them. I'm sure some of them would have given up their firstborn child for one night alone with Mr. Jones. And the man is 65 years old. 65! One wrong move, one wrongly-timed gyration, he could fall and break a hip. Don't get me wrong, he puts on a hell of a show, but the man isn't as spry as he used to be. But despite the risk of bodily injury, Tom keeps going; one song after another, one dance after another, one sexual innuendo after another, all to the delight of his legion of screaming female fans.

Now I get why my Mom listened to him so much on those dark and stormy winter afternoons. It wasn't to entertain me, it was to entertain her!

I have new respect for the man, the myth, and the legend that is Tom Jones. If only I could harness a tenth of this man's mojo. I'm not asking for the power to make women throw their panties at me at will, just enough to make them at least consider the idea. Too much of Tom's mojo might be too powerful for everyday life. Strange women screaming at me and ripping my clothes off while I'm standing in line at the bank might be a bit awkward.

Fun, but awkward.

Room With A View

The skies in L.A. are usually clear, but this year saw more rain fall on the city since, well, ever. But despite the flooding, the sinkholes, and the mudslides that made life miserable at the beginning of the year, there were a few days where the sky would clear up just enough to produce sunsets like the one above. So, for a couple days at least, the view from my kitchen window was almost worth the weather.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride

I turned 33 today. I survived another year, and after the year I just had, that's no small feat. But that's another story for another time. Instead, I am reminded of another birthday, a birthday filed with wonder, excitement, and sheer terror. It was June 20, 1978. I was turning 6, a birthday that remains the most terrifying day of my life. For it was on that day, in a magical kingdom known as Disney World, that I experienced true horror, the likes of which I had never seen before.

A horror known only as MR. TOAD'S WILD RIDE.

On the surface, it seemed harmless enough. Deep in the heart of Fantasyland, flashing lights, loud music, and animatronic animals beckon to all who wander near, like some candy coated sirens' call. Step right up! Don't miss! The amazing magical joyride through the loveable world of Mr. Toad! See Mr. Toad sing! See Mr. Toad dance! See Mr. Toad having all sorts of Mr. Toad adventures! It's great for the kids! How can you go wrong with a pitch like that? And so there I was, dragging my uncle through the line, hopped up on my seventh $3 coke in the collectable Mickey Mouse squeeze bottle. After what seemed an eternity, we found ourselves at the head of the line, ready to board our Mr. Toad jalopy to set out on our Mr. Toad Wild Ride! The jalopy was a faithful recreation of the open-top, 1920's car that was so popular with talking woodland creatures circa 1978. My uncle picked me up and set my right behind the jalopy's enormous steering wheel and said, "You know what, it's your birthday, you get to drive." Then he gave me a wink and moved to the back of the jalopy. And before I could say anything, the jalopy took off without warning.

I was off on my wild ride with Mr. Toad.

Mr. Toad's Wild Ride is nothing more than a brisk journey through a funhouse full of singing animatronic animals dancing to cheesy music and cheap smoke effects. The jalopy winds its way along a track on the floor, all while avoiding the Mr. Toad characters that jump out at you, then deposits you on the other side of the funhouse, dropping you off at a conveniently located gift shop selling Mr. Toad shirts, dolls, and $3 cokes in collectable Mr. Toad squeeze bottles.

So you're probably asking yourself, "What's so scary about that?" Well, when my uncle lifted me up and stuck me behind the wheel of the car, I thought I was REALLY DRIVING. In my 6 year old mind, I was suddenly responsible for every move our jalopy made. If I steered left, the jalopy would go left. If I steered right, the jalopy would go right. And if I didn't do a good job and steer clear of Mr. Toad and his friends, not only could I crash into them, but I could also crash into the back wall of the funhouse, possibly killing me, my uncle, and any other poor soul unlucky enough to cross my path!

In other words, I was now responsible for the safety and well-being of myself and everyone else having a Wild Ride!

The jalopy rode along the track just like it always did, hundreds of times a day, thousands of times a year, each time narrowly avoiding hitting Mr. Toad, the wall of the funhouse, or anything else. But to the 6 year old boy behind the wheel of the jalopy, the boy with no concept of tracks, automated systems, or animatronics, this was a ride straight into hell. My small fingers gripped the oversized wheel in front of me with every once of strength I had. I frantically steered left, narrowly avoiding a head on collision with a hedgehog. But there was a giant mole coming at me! I steered right, speeding past the over-eager underground dweller. No time to catch my breath as another creature sprang up in our path! Sweat poured down my face as I turned the wheel. My uncle just smiled and waved at me, laughing at the Wild Ride we were on. What was he laughing for? Didn't he realize he put a 6 year old boy behind the wheel of a speeding car? Faster and faster we went through the funhouse, zipping past every kind of talking critter you can imagine, each one more determined than the last to leap out in the path of our speeing jalopy. And the jalopy had no foot pedals! I was behind the wheel of a speeding car with NO BRAKES! There was no way to slow us down! We were out of control!

ARRRRGGGGGHHHHH!

The jalopy finally slowed down and stopped. Everyone got out. And while the other kids were laughing and clamoring for their parents to buy them something, I was shaking and trembling. I gripped the stair rail with white knuckles as I walked up to my parents waiting at the end of the line. They kept saying, "That looked like fun! Do you want to ride it again?" Hell, no, I don't want to ride it again! What are you people, nuts? You almost killed me! On my birthday! With a hedgehog!

It was right then and there I swore I would never take a wild ride with Mr. Toad ever again.

At least not until I was 7 and could handle the pressure better.

Losing The Light

One of the best pictures I've ever taken. Standing at the far end of an abandonded sea park on the edge of California's coast in Rancho Palos Verdes, November 2003, during the filming of "The Aviator." Directly behind me, Hollywood geniuses were recereating the spectacular crash of Howard Hughes and his XF-11 spyplane smashing into Beverly Hills. Take after take, fire, smoke, and exploding debris were set off, creating a magnificent pyrotechnic display for the whole crew to see. And just on the other side of the set, out of view from the camera, there was an entirely different light show going on. And this one only needed one take to get right.

The Couch Is Moving

TiVo rocks. The greatest invention in the history of man. Better than fire, the wheel, and aerosol cheese combined. I can watch whatever I want, whenever I want. Brilliant. My love and adoration for this miracle of technology knows no bounds. For example, shows I missed months ago can be recorded and saved, called up at a moment's notice, played back again and again, rewound, paused, and... well, you get the idea. But it's great! You can relive every moment of your favorite show over and over again. Like I said, brilliant!

So thanks to the TiVo, I found myself planted on the couch on a lazy Thursday afternoon watching an episode of "Lost" from 3 months ago. I sat there, mesmerized by the adventures of these 21st century castaways stuck on some new uncharted desert isle (whose predicament could easily be remedied if they would only do what the old bunch should have done, which is to ask the Professor to build a friggin' BOAT), but I digress. To make a long story short, that's when the couch started moving. Then the walls rumbled, the windows rattled, and the TV shook. I realized what it was. It wasn't the cat under the table. It wasn't someone running down the hall. It wasn't a big truck driving by.

It was an earthquake.

It lasted about 2 seconds.

It felt like 2 minutes.

My heart stopped, then began racing. I sat there, not moving, not breathing, waiting to see if more was coming. Nothing happened. I sighed, then laughed. There it was, my first earthquake. I knew when I moved to L.A. I would experience one at some point. Out of the blue, just like that. For a split second, everything in your world stops. Life takes a tremendous, ominous pause while the planet has a stretch and rearranges the scenery a bit. Then it's over. The moment hits like a thunderbolt, then is gone just as fast. And, as far as earthquakes go, this one was tiny. Geologically speaking, anyway. But it didn't matter. It was an EARTHQUAKE. I calmed down. I switched from "Lost" to the local news, knowing I could return to the folks stranded on the island at a more convenient time. And that's when it hit me. All the important moments, the ones you remember for the rest of your life, you get to see them one time and that's it. You can't rewind, go back, and watch it all over again. They just happen, then are gone. The moments that remain with us the longest are the ones we only get to see once.

Life has no TiVo.

Dream Awake

My grandfather made a living jumping out of perectly good airplanes. Coolest. Job. Ever.

"I'd buy that for a dollar!"

RoboCop. Great movie. Forget the sequels, or the lame tv show, the orginal Paul Verhoeven-Peter Weller epic is a masterpiece of high concept and highly stylized violence. But there is one thing about the film that has stuck with me, something that I ponder from time to time. During the movie, the people of the future are shown watching television; news, commercials, tv shows. One of the programs they watch is a sitcom starring a short, bald man with a thick moustache and thicker glasses. He bumbles through several escapades on this sitcom, usually involving large breasted women in bikinis. All throughout RoboCop, people are shown watching this sitcom, laughing out loud at what they see. And more than once in the film, the bald guy on the sitcom says, "I'd buy that for a dollar." He says this line and everybody laughs. The people in the studio audience, the people watching the sitcom at home; everyone thinks "I'd buy that for a dollar" is the funniest thing they've ever heard. One of the characters in the film even uses the phrase in day-to-day conversation. It's so popular, it's become a catchphrase. It's the sitcom's signature line. For the people in RoboCop's future society, "I'd buy that for a dollar" is part of the pop culture. So what I wonder is this. At some point in the history of this sitcom, the line "I'd buy that for a dollar" was used for the first time. It gets a huge response and it becomes a running joke. So, what happened that first time? What was the first situation for which "I'd buy that for a dollar" was the punchline? What was it that happened that first time to make the line "I'd buy that for a dollar" so damn funny?

These are the things that keep me up at night.

Free Katie

So, with all this talk of Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes in the "news" lately, I began to wonder just what all the fuss is over Scientology. I mean, Tom sings the praises of this so-called religion in more and more interviews lately, as do John Travolta, Kirstie Alley, and so many other celebs. Even Katie "digs it" and has signed up to take L. Ron Hubbard's path to the stars. Not knowing much about Scientology besides the name, and that you have to pay a lot of money to join, I did some digging around the internet to uncover what it's all about. And after several hours of reading, I came to one inescapable conclusion:

Scientology is a cult. A very real, dangerous, and evil cult.

Someone needs to resuce Katie Holmes before it is too late. Tom is too far gone. But Katie can be saved. A hero needs to rise up and snatch her away from the disciples of Xenu. I suggest you check out www.xenu.net to discover for yourself the truth behind L. Ron Hubbard and his flock of certified nut jobs. Seriously, folks. I couldn't make this stuff up if I tried.

"No matter where you go, there you are."

So, here it is. My first blog post. My contribution to the already overcrowded information superhighway. A quiet little corner of cyberspace to talk about whatever it is that crosses my mind. All the kids are doing it, why not me? I feel all George Jetson-y now. And speaking of the Jetsons, the last time I checked my calendar we were living in the 21st century. Where are the flying cars? I was promised flying cars. The creation of the internet has made it possible to communicate with anyone anywhere instantly, but they have yet to figure out how make a Saturn that can turn into a suitcase. Think of the parking problems that could be elminated! Come on, General Motors, get on this! I can see the 2006 model year already! The new Dodge Wallet! The Ford Knapsack! The Honda Handbag! The possibilities are endless!

Anyway, enjoy the blog. I'll try to keep it interesting.