October 19th, 2004

flavored with age

A boring post about dreams

So recently I had this idea for a screenplay, which I actually intend to write one of these days when I finish the fifteen billion other things I have to do, because I think it's an interesting idea and it might be "salable", as the young people say these days. In fact, it's either the most commercial idea I've ever had, or the least.

Anyway, I had this dream last night that I had sold the screenplay and it became a big critical success, so my agent (note: I don't actually have an agent) sent me to do an interview for a feature Entertainment Weekly was doing about "hip young screenwriters" (note: I am neither hip nor young). So I go to the home of this other "hip young screenwriter", who actually is young and hip, and who has been celebrated for a movie he wrote that was about how awesome yet frustrating it is to be smarter and better and cooler than the rest of your family, a la "Garden State" and a bunch of other movies that leave a bad taste in my mouth. He lives in this really swanky house somewhere in the suburbs of New York City, and he tries to have a conversation with me about my work, but all he can think of to say is how he thought the title (the title contains an impolite word) was "outrageous, man". I tell him about how hard it was to get the film released because of its content and title, but he doesn't seem very interested.

Then, his wife appears. She is a dead ringer for MTV's Kennedy, only about a decade younger, and it is clear she intends to dominate the whole conversation. She talks to me non-stop about what a fabulous genius her husband is, and how many great things he has lined up after this, and how even though he's a writer, he's really good-looking, and he's in negotiations to be a model in a series of television ads for Gap. I am entirely unable to get a word in with her. She begins talking about what a hard life they had before he sold the screenplay, mentioning that they only had one car, they could barely afford to travel to Europe, and they didn't even have a house and had to live in an apartment like a schmuck. I already want to punch her in the side of the head, but then she pulls out a new laptop computer that she clearly just bought yesterday and fires it up, claiming that it's absolutely essential for their reputation that they keep up to date. She then notes how disappointed she was that her very first e-mail on this new computer was a begging letter from the DNC signed by John Kerry, because "I'm none too fond of that John Kerry."

It is at this point that I excuse myself to go stand in their front yard, and when the interviewer arrives, I tell her that she'll have to talk to me outdoors, because I'm not going back in the house.

flavored with age

Stupid mini-poll

A while ago, I wrote this story on my website. Once I've cleaned it up so that it makes more sense, I think it'll be a pretty decent story, in a creepy quasi-fairy-tale way, but it seems a bit flat as just text, and lately I've been thinking of "doing something" with it in another medium. The only thing is, I have no idea what "doing something" is, and I don't know anything about other media.

Poll #369063 We create, you decide

What should I do with "The Boy Who Was Death"?

You should turn it into some kind of performance or stage presentation.
You should film it.
You should make it into a comic or an illustrated text of some sort.
You should leave it as a story.
You should make it into a sculpture or an interpretive dance or something.
You should do nothing with it because it's not very good.
I have no opinion on this matter.
Little care I, because I don't read the Ludic Log and I never will.
Little care I, because I do read the Ludic Log, but I just don't give a fuck.
I don't know, but it appears that you are very fond of the name "Carter".