I think I may have missed something in the whole "blogging" experience. Reading over my friend's blogs (see right column), as well as any other random blog I choose to waste my precious time on, I find that I'm the only person in the entire know blogging world to use people's real names. Everyone has codenames, nicknames, psuedonyms, or screennames for all those mentioned in their blogs. Be it for privacy's sake, or just plain creative arrogance, the names are always changed.
And so, yet another bandwagon that I feel the need to leap onto like a cowboy with a bad haircut. I'm going to start assigning fake names to the characters of my little literary adventure. Do not, under any circumstances, think that I am about to go through all of my old posts and edit all previous mentions into their new titles. Oh no! I'm not that dedicated to this cause. Just because I'm falling into the fad doesn't mean I actually beleive in it. If I actually required myself to believe in what I was doing, I never would have even started this blog.
For starters, my mother and my father will from this moment on be referred to as "Mom" and "Dad," respectively.
I don't mention my kids a whole lot here, but that will probably change. My daughter is becoming much more animated as she gets older. She's 7 years old now and selling Girl Scout Cookies. My daughter...in the Girl Scouts. I would've expected all of California to fall into the ocean first. Guess I was wrong. My daughter will be called "Pink" from here on out, as this is her favorite color. My son is "Monkey." He hates it when I call him that.
My ex-wife will simply be known as "She-Devil."
Sam would have wanted me to call him "Asshole," his stage name from his stand-up comedy days in LA. I find that name to be a glaring clue as to why his stand-up career was unsuccessful. Instead, I will call him "Prancer."
Andy is President and CEO of FrogFaith, Inc. So he will be "Frogman."
Sienna reminds me of TankGirl in a lot of ways, so that's what her new name is.
Kitten will remain "Kitten." If you've been keeping up, you'd already know that this isn't her real name, but the nickname I gave her the night we met. She likes it, so I've kept it.
Fran continues to bait and avoid. She cozy's up to me at the bar, tells me to call her, then blows me off. Just when I think I've got her, she slips through my grasp. For this I dub her "RoadRunner."
The two co-workers I spend the most time with, Doug and Mary, will be "Cabanna Boy" and "Wench." You'll have to take my word that they'd like those names. Any other co-workers will be mentioned descriptively; My Boss, Blonde Chick, Moustache Guy, Cleavage Girl, etc.
Mike has been "Hollywood Mike" since the day I met him. Burton has been "Saint Burton" since before time began. Laura has never been anything but "Crazy." Margie is Margie and there's nothing anyone can do about it. Annie has dubbed herself "Nobu" and I have no idea what that means.
I think that just about covers everyone I've mentioned before, as well as a few extras that may appear in the future. If anyone new pops up, I'll call them as I see them.
As for me, I'm still "Doc." I've been Doc going on 13 years now, and just about everyone I know outside of family calls me that. Even Andy...I mean...Frogman and his whole family call me "Doc," even though they've known me since I was 8 years old. Although, recently hearing that name called out during sex has made me concerned as to how stupid it sounds. How is it I've never noticed that before? Is it too late to start introducing myself as "Master?"
Movies are becoming more like TV series, more Serial-like. Trilogies, Franchises, Kill Bill in two volumes. The "To Be Continued" that first appeared at the clifhanger endings of the first two Back To The Future movies was only the beginning.
The Matrix, Lord Of The Rings, and now The Chronicles of Narnia are the pioneers into this new attempt from the movie companies to keep you coming back in the same fasion as your favorite TV show. These aren't sequels; lame attempts at re-hashing the same shit on a different day. No, these are the new episodes. These movies were written and/or filmed in tandum, with the full intent of being released in sequence like a weekly TV series.
Meanwhile, TV shows are streching their serialization. A full season of "24" covers... well... 24 hours of a single day. "Lost" has been on for a full year, but it's characters have only been lost for about a month and a half. The storylines are becoming less episodic and more seasonal. Questions go unanswered, conflicts go unresolved, tune in next time for more.
The top shows these days spread out and interconnect the storylines of each episode, making each season a 13 to 25 hour long movie.
The FX channel has decided to take liberties with the TV ratings system; TV-MA rated shows like "The Sheild," "Rescue Me," and "Nip/Tuck" are not at all shy with nudity or full use of every dirty word concievable (except of course, the deadly F-Bomb). Meanwhile, HBO and Showtime take advantage of their Pay Channel status, and give us blatantly R-rated TV shows.
Both TV and Movie makers have begun worshiping at the DVD altar. The waiting time between a movie theatrical release and it's DVD release gets shorter every year. In some cases, they are simultaneous. Meanwhile, the TV guys have discovered that (sponsers be damned) the real value of a series is in it's DVD sales (example: Family Guy). So much to the point that the above mentioned FX shows hit hard times in their enitial runs because of sponser pull-outs due to the controversial content, but the repeatedly profitable DVD sales have saved the shows time and again. The repeated DVD success of these shows has also made the very important point that sponsors are stupid and a good TV show should have less of them. Less commercials + grittier content = better DVD sales = more profit. This is exactly the formula that FX is testing out. They're trying to emulate HBO's success as much as they can while still being only a basic cable channel. And, while HBO is not making much extra subscription money on their shows, nor do they have any sponsors whatsoever, DVD sales of "Sex In The City" and "The Sopranos" are still going strong.
Now, to top things off, the internet is throwing it's two cents into the mix. Apple's video iPod, Sony's PSP, Verizon's video playback enhanced phones, as well as any number of PDA's or Sidekicks will be the next generation of entertainment delivery. Apple sells reruns of "Lost" and "Law and Order" for 2 bucks a pop. Google just announced they were going to start selling NBA content. Ifilm.com, in it's own very sad and pathetic way, has contributed to the independent distribution of entertainment through the internet.
Here's the way I see it. Coming soon:
Internet Serials.
TV series with no rules, no sponsors, no time constraints, no censors. Just you and your computer/cellphone/iPod. Perhaps the first two or three episodes are free, just to get you interested. After that, a dollar, five dollars, maybe even ten dollars per episode. Episodes can be 5 minutes long, or two hours long. Daily, weekly, monthly. Seasons may be anywhere from 2 to a hundred episodes. In fact, the entire concept of the "season" may just go right out the window, and an Internet Serial will go from story arc to story arc whenever it damn well pleases.
I see an interesting future in the way of entertainment. Independent filmmakers and producers could offer up serialized entertainment in exchange for pocket change per viewer. If the show is a hit, that money could be used to produce the DVD collection, where the real money is made.
This will be among my new goals. My new writing project, along with the features that FrogFaith will begin producing as soon as I get to China, is to develop a new Internet Serial. I suppose the term will be "Podcast." I imagine that in the future, all internet based entertainment will be called "podcasts." I could be wrong, but it already seems to be catching on. Independently produced .mpg radio shows are already becoming yesterdays news, but the term "Podcast" seems to have stuck. Even as more and more of the content is made and used by people who have nothing to do with iPods, the concept seems to have been christened right and proper. Just as all photocopy machines are called "Xeroxs," and all facial tissue is referred to as "Kleenex," all of the internet based entertainment will be called "podcasts."
How will this play out, I wonder. Will there be a ratings system imposed? Will we be required to buy licenses? What will happen when this new outlet becomes so maintream that the FCC will have no choice but to stick it's ugly little, clap infected dick into this last bastion of free expression?
The future of entertainment is about to get interesting. I can't wait to see what happens next.
Boysies.
P.S. Check out the Four Eyed Monsters podcast; A documentary series about the making of an independant film of the same name.
Wednesday, January 18, 2006
:
"miles to go before I sleep"
My passport application was rejected.
Things that I had left undone in Oregon, unpleasant and difficult things, have thrown a red flag on my federal record. Things that I had hoped to deal with at a later date, when I am in a better position to deal at all. It mostly involves money. It's always about money. Money seems to be the center of my problems these days. This is going to slow me down a bit. I'll just have to work some extra hours, deal with what needs to be delt with and get back into it. This will not stop me. I cannot be stopped.
Kitten met up with an old flame the other day. He wants to give things another shot. She hasn't decided yet. She wants to spend some time with him and see where his life is really at before she makes a descision. We talked about it tonight over some really good mexican food (her treat!). I made it clear to her that I have no interest in being The Other Man, and so we've agreed to be PG Rated until she knows for sure. She says she still wants to spend time with me, regardless. So, in the meantime, I'll be inducting her into the "Firefly" cult. You can't stop the signal.
Fran; still the same. She seems happy to see me, gives me free drinks, comes to talk to me whenever she has a free moment. And yet, both times I've called on the phone have been abrupt and unprogressive. Strange girl, that one.
Dispite the somber tone of this entry, I'm actually in a rather good mood these last few days. Kitten has been very good for me and my ego. When I went to Pint the other night, Olga saw me and screamed "Oh my god! Doc is smiling!" Later, when no one else was looking, she leaned in close to me and said "You know, you look really good when you smile."
On the other hand, Fran is a challenge. And I love a challenge. As much as I hate The Game, I've never been able to resist The Puzzle. I do the crossword every day, then the Jumble. Not because I like it, but because I have to!
So, the way I see it is...I've won. No matter what happens here on out with either Kitten or Fran, I've had a good run. I'm not going to be lamenting on any would've, could've, or should've on these last few weeks. On the contrary, it's been a blast. I'd love to do it all over again and again. I'll be writing about Fran and Kitten in one incarnation or another for the rest of my life.
Well, there's a lot left for me to do. Lots of my life waiting to be lived. I'd better hop to it. China won't wait forever, dammit.
Friday, January 13, 2006
:
The Irony Of It All, Part 3
I think she likes me.
Kitten hasn't stopped calling since we spent the night together. She keeps saying "I'm so glad I met you," over and over again.
Fran, on the other hand, still keeping me at arms length. In fact, I'm starting to get the feeling that she gets off on keeping me at arms length.
As I came back to work after my night with Kitten, Mary (another auditor) casually asked me if I had made any progress with Fran. Mary's mother is in her 80's and has been spending a lot of time at the hospital the last few weeks. Apparently, Mary has been entertaining her with the stories of my "escapades."
"I have escapades?" I asked. "Close enough," Mary replied. "Now, spill it. What happened this weekend?"
I told her about Kitten. When I was done, she wouldn't stop laughing.
"I don't think this could happen to anyone else," she said to me, "If there is a God, he likes to fuck with you."
"So, what do I do?" "How do you mean?" "I mean, what about Fran? I just got her to trust me enough to give me her phone number. Now I'm going to go up and say 'sorry, I found someone that puts out?'" "No, don't say that." "So what do I say?" "Nothing. Date them both."
This was the advice given to me by a 60-year-old grandmother. I've never known what to make of Mary.
"Date them both?" "Yeah. Why not?" "Well, doesn't that seem a little...I don't know...shitty?" "Look, they both know that you're leaving the country soon. Neither one of them is under any illusion that you're going to be any kind of commitment material. Hell, it sounds to me like this new lady won't give a shit either way. As for Fran, she doesn't deserve to get her heart broke just because she was playing it safe.
"I really don't think this is gonna break her heart."
"It'll bruise her pride, at least. She doesn't deserve that either."
I think about it for a moment. "Don't you think that maybe, the reason she's being so cautious with me is because she might want to make sure that I'm not the kind of guy that would date two girls at the same time."
"You can fake it for a couple of weeks, can't you?"
"Yeah, but..." "But what?" "I've been trying this whole "being a better person" thing..." "Oh, well you need to stop that right now. It's just going to get you into trouble."
The conversation ended with that.
I'm set to see Kitten again this weekend. She lives out in the 'burbs, with the occasional hotel stay in town. Meanwhile, I've become a regular at Pint for Sunday nights. Should I keep that up and see where things flow with Fran? Mary has a point; Kitten has made it very clear to me that I'm just a Post-Holliday Fling. She doesn't care who or what I do, so long as she get's her fair share. Fran, on the other hand...sure, she knows I'm leaving the country and is in fact saving up money to move to Italy within couple months herself. But she definately has put out the vibe that she is a one-man woman, and is only interested in one-woman men. No matter how short term it is, she is exclusive and expects the same.
I couldn't respect that more. Hell, that kind of attitude is rare these days, especially in women. And even though I had the best of intentions when I started this, is it really right for me to be blatantly deceptive to her just because my ego wants to finish what I started?
Mary's right; there is a God, and he's fucking with me. It's as if I made a wish on the Monkey's Paw.
Thursday, January 12, 2006
:
The Irony Of It All, Part 2
The funny thing about it is, I didn't want to go.
The night before, I had been back at Pint. I spent most of the night at the bar, talking it up with Fran. The best part was when she tore Sam a new asshole for being a bad wingman. Actually, that tied with the part where she decided to finally give me her phone number (on the condition that I don't tell Sam).
So, the next day, I'm hung over. I resolve that I've been spending too much time being drunk, and way too much time being hung over lately, and I decide to spend the day with my favorite hangover cure; Starcraft: Brood Wars, the game I love to hate. I had that night off of work as well, and I was looking forward to a full night of doing nothing. Then, Sam got back from work and reminded me that I had promised to be at Marianne's birthday party.
I really, really didn't want to go. I had already spent all of my party money and party energy the night before. Not to mention, I hate Marianne's boyfriend. But, I did promise to be there, and part of this whole "being a better person" thing that I'm trying to do these days involves keeping my promises.
So, I reluctantly root through my clean laundry to find something that doesn't make me look too much like a pothead, and we head out.
Marianne works at a dueling-piano bar called Howl At The Moon. She couldn't get the night off work, so everyone was going to meet there and harrass her for the duration of her shift.
The good thing about piano bars, is that they play a lot of Billy Joel. The only problem is, they get requests for "Piano Man" so many times a night they tend to turn it into some sort of improv comedy rutine. I understand that the musicians need to do this in order to keep from going insane. But come on, man! You don't fuck with "Piano Man." That's just not right.
To their credit, the rest of the Billy Joel songs they played were flawless and beautifull, put me in a good mood, and kept me there.
I had planned to not aggrivate my already delicate condition by drinking only coke. However, as the night rolled on, Sam insisted on going from table to table and telling everyone in the place that we were here to celebrate one of the waitresses birthday. The result: that table buys shots for Marianne and all her friends.
I was drunk within the hour.
Then arrived Olga; our resident Russian Trust-Fund Alcoholic.
I stayed drunk.
The musicians did a good job keeping the atmosphere pleasant and upbeat. As hours rolled on, the combination of alcohol, good music, and still a bit high from my night with Fran, I was pretty loopy for most of the night.
A woman that we later came to know as "Brenda" wandered past our table on the way to the bathroom. The band was playing "Twist And Shout" and Sam grabbed her by the arm and started dancing with her. Once upon a time, Sam was a professional swing dancer (yes, there is such a thing), and this was his tried-and-true, sure fire method for picking up women. Halfway through the song, he spun her across the aisle to me.
I could have killed him for this. He knows that I can't dance. I'd spent a few years in Musical Theater, but that had allowed me months of rehersal on well choreographed steps. On a friendly neighborhood dance floor, I'm about as graceful as a dead dog. Add to the fact that I was drunk and wearing very heavy boots, that night I was as gracefull as a sack of dead dogs.
I lurched my way through the song, at the end of which Brenda asked me to point her towards the restrooms. I sat back down and glared bloody daggers at Sam as he grinned his shit-eating grin at me. I understand the whole idea behind showing off to impress a girl, but I'd had enough of other guys making me a part of their floor show.
A few minutes later, she came out of the bathroom and made her way toward us. I nudged Sam. "Here comes your girl," I say. "If you're planning on fucking with me again..."
"Don't worry, I'm done," he said.
I settled back into my seat.
Brenda stepped up to me. "Hey there," she said. "Hey," I said, ever the pillar of elequence. "What's your name?" "My friends call me 'Doc'" She cocked her head to one side. "Doc? As in, 'Doctor?'" "Yup." She stared at me in silence for a moment. "Call me...Brenda," She finally said. "'Brenda' it is." Another pause. "Having fun?" She asks. I point to myself. "You see this? This is my 'having fun' face." She smirked, and cocked her head again. I began to wonder if I had grown a dick in the middle of my forehead. "Can I have your phone number?" She asked, suddenly.
My jaw dropped open. "I'd love to, but I don't have a phone." Another tilt of the head. "Why don't you have a phone?" "I've downsized," I say. "I'm staying with Sam while I get ready to move to China." Her eyebrows shot up. "You're leaving the country?" "Yep," I say. "I'd be happy to give you Sam's number. You can reach me that way."
She doesn't say anything for a moment. The "I'm leaving the country, here's my roommate's number" part is usually where it ends.
"When do you leave?" She asks, finally. "Less than a month. I'm just waiting for my passport." She leans in close, "Promise?" I'm taken back, yet again. "Yeah, I promise."
She kissed me.
"I'm here with some co-workers," She says, afterwards. "Give me a half an hour, then we can leave." I blink. "Leave? Leave where?" "I'm staying at a hotel two blocks from here." "Oh." Yeah, thats right. All I said was "oh." "Do you feel like staying up all night?" "Uh, yeah," was the best I could do. "Good answer," she said with a smile. "Half an hour. Will you still be here?" I looked at my watch. "Half an hour, starting now."
One last smile, and she went back to her table.
I turned back to my table.
Sam, Marianne, Marianne's idiot boyfriend, and two other people whom I had never seen before, were all staring at me; mouths wide open.
I lean in. "Hey, did any of you guys see that?"
"You're my hero," Marianne said.
A few minutes later, a fresh round of drinks appeared at our table; compliments of Brenda.
"Shit," Sam said. "I think Doc just landed himself a SugarMamma."
Half an hour, on the dot, we're leaving the bar together. On our way out she turns to me and says "Doc" very carefully, as though she was testing the name for thread breaks.
"Brenda," I say, immitating her inflections.
She gives me another smirk. "Actually, my name's not really Brenda." "Whatever," I say. "How about I just call you 'Kitten' from now on?" "Deal," She said.
I met Fran at a place called Pint. It said Wine Bar on the door, even though the name "Pint" does not at all conjure the image of wine, nor can one see any fucking wine behind the bar. Rather, Fox Sports playing on hi-def flatscreens bolted to every table would give one the impression that this is a sports bar.
"Sam," I said, "I get the impresssion that this is a sports bar." "So?" Sam asked. "Sam, do you know what 'first and ten' means?" "No." "Neither do I. Let's get the fuck out of here."
That was when I noticed her. It was hard not to notice her.
I once heard the phrase "She was built like a brick shithouse. Slender, solid, and stacked." That pretty much covered Fran. As my eyes traced along the entire outline of her body, I noticed the oddest little thing; She was wearing a sweatband around her wrist with the words "I [heart] Geeks" printed on it.
"Sam, grab a table. I'll get us some drinks." "But you just said..." "Table! Now!"
It was a semi-slow night, and she was the only waitress on, so we took over a large sofa-lined booth that had a VIP Lounge feel to it. We talked Fran into sitting with us whenever she had a moment to herself. Much to my delight, she sat next to me each time.
As we were getting ready to leave, I took a chance and asked her for her phone number. She respectfully informed me that she has a rule against giving her number to guys at the bar. She did however, volunteer her email address. I took that and staggered home.
A week later, we went back. I had garnered from my previous talks with Fran that she would be there. She seemed happy to see us. She bought us many, many rounds. It was even slower than before, and she had lots of chances to sit with us and share the O-Bombs she had bought us. As we talked, she told me about how she had spent the day lingerie shopping, but she didn't know why she bothered since she didn't have anyone to wear it for. When she left, Sam leaned forward and said "If you don't get her phone number tonight, I'll kill you."
Later on in the night, I was good and drunk when I leaned in close to her and told how beautiful she was. She pushed me back and said, "You're drunk. I can't take you seriously."
Fair enough. "Do you work tomorrow?" I asked.
She nodded.
"Cool. I'll be here tomorrow, and I won't have a single drink."
I held true to my word, hangover and all. I was there the next day. When I walked in the place was empty. Fran was alone behind the bar and not another soul could found in the place. When she saw me she looked shocked. "What are you doing here?" she asked. I sat down and said, as quietly as I could, "I said I'd be here, didn't I?" I drank coke, had a sandwich, and we talked for an hour or so.
About then, more people started to drift into the bar. Apparently, there was some sort of big game on that day and the place was due to be packed. I decided to take my leave.
I signed off on the bill, and just as Fran was about to take it from me I pulled it back. "Let's get something straight," I said to her, "I haven't be able to get you out of my head since the night we met. Whatever I've got to do to prove that...I'm in. Got it?"
Her jaw dropped open, like she couldn't beleive I had the balls to say such a thing to her. "Got it," she said, quietly.
I left. Since then, we've exchanged a friendly email or two. She's dropped a couple hints about going to see Hostel, only I'd much rather have my nose torn off than see that movie. I've heard good things about it, but only from people who's opinion means less than nothing to me.
Oh well, I did say "whatever I've got to do" after all.
Work has been so slow lately, I've actually resorted to a night of blogthings.
Your Brain's Pattern
You have a dreamy mind, full of fancy and fantasy. You have the ability to stay forever entertained with your thoughts. People may say you're hard to read, but that's because you're so internally focused. But when you do share what you're thinking, people are impressed with your imagination.
Well, now I'm running off to China as soon as my passport comes through. That should make for something more interesting. Safe to say, 2005 will be my "Year Of The Windy City" which I will look back on with disgust and denial. I cannot wait to leave it in the dust. Good riddence, '05. I'm better off without you. I'm taking '06 out for a drink.
