My friend Nick is an aspiring young filmmaker who has been pouring quite a bit of his talent into a project he calls "The Accountant". It's about a young accountant that gets wrapped up with the Italian and Russian crime syndicates, and an ensuing vendetta.
Recently he not only asked me to play a role in the film, but also to write a dramatic funeral scene for part 3 of the film. I may even post the script out here, once completed (if Nick approves).
Monday, June 29, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Generic Goodbye Letter
Dear [Insert Name Here]:
I fear this may be our last communiqué.
What started out as a harmless little cold last week has manifested into a full out frontal assault of Germ Warfare vs My Immune System. The ImSys team is currently getting its ass kicked, solidly. Give a fucking microbe an inch and they take a mile.
I knew I was in for it yesterday at about noon. I'd had the sniffles since Thursday. In my usual 'live and let live' paradigm, I figured there was enough room in my sinus cavity for me and The Germs (tm) to coexist peacefully enough. But by Friday morning, the order to Climb Mount Fujimori was issued, and the little bastards made a Cannonball Run for my lungs. I knew the laissez faire policy I’d previously held dear had gone horribly awry when my back started to ache, but the clincher was when my lungs started to itch. The Germ Army was setting an occupying force that even Donnie Rumsfeld would have been hard pressed to do much about. I immediately set medicinal sanctions in place and enlisted the help of some mercenary Antibiotics.
Let me tell you something about the Pill Politic. While there's no doubt they can oust the occupying forces, they're slow to get going and they're really god damn expensive. That, and they don't care much what others think of them, as they're pretty bitter going down. Regardless, they are likely the only thing standing between me and utter annihilation at the cruel hands of Bacterium Overlords. It's a small price to pay, I suppose, for the parting damage they cause as they take leave in my guts.
I hope this missive finds you well as I lie critically wounded in the field of battle. Should I not make it, please be sure to tell my wife that I love her.
Best Regards, and a wheezing cough.
I fear this may be our last communiqué.
What started out as a harmless little cold last week has manifested into a full out frontal assault of Germ Warfare vs My Immune System. The ImSys team is currently getting its ass kicked, solidly. Give a fucking microbe an inch and they take a mile.
I knew I was in for it yesterday at about noon. I'd had the sniffles since Thursday. In my usual 'live and let live' paradigm, I figured there was enough room in my sinus cavity for me and The Germs (tm) to coexist peacefully enough. But by Friday morning, the order to Climb Mount Fujimori was issued, and the little bastards made a Cannonball Run for my lungs. I knew the laissez faire policy I’d previously held dear had gone horribly awry when my back started to ache, but the clincher was when my lungs started to itch. The Germ Army was setting an occupying force that even Donnie Rumsfeld would have been hard pressed to do much about. I immediately set medicinal sanctions in place and enlisted the help of some mercenary Antibiotics.
Let me tell you something about the Pill Politic. While there's no doubt they can oust the occupying forces, they're slow to get going and they're really god damn expensive. That, and they don't care much what others think of them, as they're pretty bitter going down. Regardless, they are likely the only thing standing between me and utter annihilation at the cruel hands of Bacterium Overlords. It's a small price to pay, I suppose, for the parting damage they cause as they take leave in my guts.
I hope this missive finds you well as I lie critically wounded in the field of battle. Should I not make it, please be sure to tell my wife that I love her.
Best Regards, and a wheezing cough.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
The fingers united can never be defeated by the stark white document template
Some folks spend lifetimes striving for that bit of Taoist perfection known as wu wei, or “without effort” – which is interesting in that the act itself of striving is counter-intuitive to the seeker’s path. Writing, for me, is usually accompanied by much wailing and gnashing of teeth. It’s not so much a struggle with vocabulary as it is with impetus. I do not believe that others care to listen to me.
And so I’d look for material that grabs people’s interest. But the truth seems to be that, much like situational comedy, the material matters less than the delivery itself. Pacing, voice, and wit. How does one work on those? Write. Write. Continue writing. How does the master comedian continue to be funny when playing off the crowd, or when his shtick runs out? I contend that he’s not trying to be funny – he just is.
I read so much Lovecraft that I could talk my way around a subject for three pages without once getting the reader to look AT IT. Not that I’ll say I had Howard’s particular je ne sais quoi. But working to develop your own voice – that’s another matter. Or is it? Because you’ve always had your own voice, and if you’ve ever been able to attract others to listen to your stories, if you’ve ever evoked an emotional response from another human being, then it’s not really hard work, is it? What about this subject matter? It’s dry, boring shit, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s not – I don’t give a fuck. But I’m OK writing it because I decided to just WRITE.
Popular thought indicates that writer’s block can be a chronic problem, brought on by depression and anxiety. No shit? It’s chronic in the same way that my body hurts when I wake up because I don’t exercise enough and have let my muscles atrophy. If I galvanize myself to action, by whatever motivation works for me, I effectively set foot on a path, beginning a journey. Where to? I’m not one to fret over the destination anymore. The beauty is in the motion.
The ancient Greeks treated the human form as godlike and believed a human perfected was beautiful, intelligent, and in touch with the gods (I’ll replace with “in touch with their inner being or spirituality”). Do I think that if I become Jim Jupiter that my writing will improve. Actually, I do.
So where’s this going? How will your investment of time pay off if you continue to read through to the end of this little stream of semi-consciousness? It won’t. There’s no moment of lucidity here – no revelations about breaking down any barriers. Could it be there ARE no revelations? And maybe the barriers that block us from true creativity are only constructs we place before ourselves because we fear our own excellence. And maybe I’m a Chinese jet pilot.
And so I’d look for material that grabs people’s interest. But the truth seems to be that, much like situational comedy, the material matters less than the delivery itself. Pacing, voice, and wit. How does one work on those? Write. Write. Continue writing. How does the master comedian continue to be funny when playing off the crowd, or when his shtick runs out? I contend that he’s not trying to be funny – he just is.
I read so much Lovecraft that I could talk my way around a subject for three pages without once getting the reader to look AT IT. Not that I’ll say I had Howard’s particular je ne sais quoi. But working to develop your own voice – that’s another matter. Or is it? Because you’ve always had your own voice, and if you’ve ever been able to attract others to listen to your stories, if you’ve ever evoked an emotional response from another human being, then it’s not really hard work, is it? What about this subject matter? It’s dry, boring shit, isn’t it? Or maybe it’s not – I don’t give a fuck. But I’m OK writing it because I decided to just WRITE.
Popular thought indicates that writer’s block can be a chronic problem, brought on by depression and anxiety. No shit? It’s chronic in the same way that my body hurts when I wake up because I don’t exercise enough and have let my muscles atrophy. If I galvanize myself to action, by whatever motivation works for me, I effectively set foot on a path, beginning a journey. Where to? I’m not one to fret over the destination anymore. The beauty is in the motion.
The ancient Greeks treated the human form as godlike and believed a human perfected was beautiful, intelligent, and in touch with the gods (I’ll replace with “in touch with their inner being or spirituality”). Do I think that if I become Jim Jupiter that my writing will improve. Actually, I do.
So where’s this going? How will your investment of time pay off if you continue to read through to the end of this little stream of semi-consciousness? It won’t. There’s no moment of lucidity here – no revelations about breaking down any barriers. Could it be there ARE no revelations? And maybe the barriers that block us from true creativity are only constructs we place before ourselves because we fear our own excellence. And maybe I’m a Chinese jet pilot.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Tick-Tock...
Asaraludu has been assigned a 500 word short. It is to appear in this space by Friday, March 6th - no later than midnight.
Can he find the strength to produce? Will the pressure to perform reduce his muse to nothing more than a curled up mess of hot tears and trembling limbs? Has he the tenacity to bear the ever so sweet fruit of creative prose for all to enjoy?
We shall see.
Let the games begin...
Can he find the strength to produce? Will the pressure to perform reduce his muse to nothing more than a curled up mess of hot tears and trembling limbs? Has he the tenacity to bear the ever so sweet fruit of creative prose for all to enjoy?
We shall see.
Let the games begin...
Almost True
So, I was minding my own perfectly good business on the way to an afternoon appointment for a major job. It’s the sort of gig that guarantees The GM can continue to pay bills through the following spring . In other words, the meeting was Important. I wasn’t worried though. I was dressed to the nines, feeling confident, and in all regards I was good to go.
What a gorgeous fall day! The fragrant breeze carried bird song and a few lazy clouds across the sky. I was traversing a country highway in my trusty Sante Fe, cranking a little Dre with the top dropped down and the sunshine shining. As the wind raced through my silky golden tresses, I couldn’t help but muse that it was one of those kinds of days when everything is so perfect you feel invincible. Nothing, and I do mean NOTHING could rob me of my confidence, my rock solid self assurance, dare I say of that certain ‘joo no say kwa’ of mine that many attempt to imitate, but few can carry off.
Well, when you throw down a challenge like that, sometimes the Universe feels obliged to respond.
Out of nowhere, something struck me in the face at 65 MPH. Ow! My brain didn’t even have time to fully process the question, “What the fuck!?!?” before my hands jerked the wheel. I crossed into the wrong lane, weaving like Lindsey Lohan on a coke fueled bender. Suddenly the ‘what’ became painfully apparent. You see, a kamikaze bee flew in the window, smacked me in the face, and fell down the front of my shirt into my bra. Outraged by the indignity of going from pollinating flowers (or whatever the fuck it is bees do in the fall) to a sudden imprisonment of cleavage, it began to sting the ever living shit out of my femininity. OWWWW!!!!
Ah, that the story would end there.
As I am some times known to do, I happened to have a road smoke lit. Well, in the confusion of the bee tragedy, I dropped the damn ciggie into my lap. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing a pair of summer slacks that must have been made out of one part candle wicking threads and five parts propane fuel accelerant. The cherry sparked off what seemed at the time to be a conflagration in my crotch.
“MY PANTS ARE ON FIRE!!!!!”
Like a smart ass, some calm part of my brain delivered a line from that old PSA commercial, “Smoking Kills.” Thanks, Mr. Subconscious. Could we maybe save the lecture for later, please?
But the story doesn't end there.
I weave back across the road, narrowly missing the car traveling behind me as I desperately sought the shoulder. Some bitch honks at me. Hey, I’m getting stabbed, being burnt, and frankly, I got no time for a turn signal, lady.
I bail out of the truck, one hand up my shirt, and the other down my pants, wriggling around like I was in some sort of epileptic Dance, Dance Revolution tourney. I relieve myself of the bee, and of the cigarette. Yeah, there’s a hole in my slacks, and my tit hurts, but I emerged victoriously alive. Take that, Gods of Fate! In Yo Face!
It’s then that I realize the chick I almost ran off the road has pulled over to see if I’m okay. Nothing like a good Samaritan, right? I go to wave them off, and it’s then that I realize the concerned citizen is none other than my 2’o clock appointment.
“Um, is everything okay?” she asks.
Ugh.
Moral of the story? Smoking kills and bees are assholes.
What a gorgeous fall day! The fragrant breeze carried bird song and a few lazy clouds across the sky. I was traversing a country highway in my trusty Sante Fe, cranking a little Dre with the top dropped down and the sunshine shining. As the wind raced through my silky golden tresses, I couldn’t help but muse that it was one of those kinds of days when everything is so perfect you feel invincible. Nothing, and I do mean NOTHING could rob me of my confidence, my rock solid self assurance, dare I say of that certain ‘joo no say kwa’ of mine that many attempt to imitate, but few can carry off.
Well, when you throw down a challenge like that, sometimes the Universe feels obliged to respond.
Out of nowhere, something struck me in the face at 65 MPH. Ow! My brain didn’t even have time to fully process the question, “What the fuck!?!?” before my hands jerked the wheel. I crossed into the wrong lane, weaving like Lindsey Lohan on a coke fueled bender. Suddenly the ‘what’ became painfully apparent. You see, a kamikaze bee flew in the window, smacked me in the face, and fell down the front of my shirt into my bra. Outraged by the indignity of going from pollinating flowers (or whatever the fuck it is bees do in the fall) to a sudden imprisonment of cleavage, it began to sting the ever living shit out of my femininity. OWWWW!!!!
Ah, that the story would end there.
As I am some times known to do, I happened to have a road smoke lit. Well, in the confusion of the bee tragedy, I dropped the damn ciggie into my lap. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing a pair of summer slacks that must have been made out of one part candle wicking threads and five parts propane fuel accelerant. The cherry sparked off what seemed at the time to be a conflagration in my crotch.
“MY PANTS ARE ON FIRE!!!!!”
Like a smart ass, some calm part of my brain delivered a line from that old PSA commercial, “Smoking Kills.” Thanks, Mr. Subconscious. Could we maybe save the lecture for later, please?
But the story doesn't end there.
I weave back across the road, narrowly missing the car traveling behind me as I desperately sought the shoulder. Some bitch honks at me. Hey, I’m getting stabbed, being burnt, and frankly, I got no time for a turn signal, lady.
I bail out of the truck, one hand up my shirt, and the other down my pants, wriggling around like I was in some sort of epileptic Dance, Dance Revolution tourney. I relieve myself of the bee, and of the cigarette. Yeah, there’s a hole in my slacks, and my tit hurts, but I emerged victoriously alive. Take that, Gods of Fate! In Yo Face!
It’s then that I realize the chick I almost ran off the road has pulled over to see if I’m okay. Nothing like a good Samaritan, right? I go to wave them off, and it’s then that I realize the concerned citizen is none other than my 2’o clock appointment.
“Um, is everything okay?” she asks.
Ugh.
Moral of the story? Smoking kills and bees are assholes.
Friday, October 31, 2008
My Credentials
Back in late 2006, some old high school friends of mine and I decided to start a new technology business. We divvy'ed up titles and responsibilities, and gave the company a name (Red Folder, LLC - subject for another post on another day).
The CFO asked me to write a bio for myself. Fast forward to the last week or so. I've been struggling with the idea of writing comedy. How does a professional writer buckle down and produce funny material? I kicked this idea around with The_GM, who gave me her thoughts on how good comedy is written.
It just so happens today Mr. CFO reminded me of the farcical bio I returned to him. I must warn you, what follows will perhaps not strike you as funny. Unless you like Mountain Dew, or girls avoided you like the plague in high school, or you played Dungeons & Dragons. Like I did. Wait, I still do. Names have not been changed - there are no innocents!
The CFO asked me to write a bio for myself. Fast forward to the last week or so. I've been struggling with the idea of writing comedy. How does a professional writer buckle down and produce funny material? I kicked this idea around with The_GM, who gave me her thoughts on how good comedy is written.
It just so happens today Mr. CFO reminded me of the farcical bio I returned to him. I must warn you, what follows will perhaps not strike you as funny. Unless you like Mountain Dew, or girls avoided you like the plague in high school, or you played Dungeons & Dragons. Like I did. Wait, I still do. Names have not been changed - there are no innocents!
Anthony R. Milani, Vice President and COO, has over 20 years experience as a Dungeon Master focused primarily in Greyhawk and Spelljammer campaign settings. During his career, he successfully ran over 15 campaigns exceeding 1 year each, killing several key player characters and disgusting at least 2 players who never returned to a game session. Longtime gamer Eric Sayre comments: "Tony sucked as a dungeon master, but no one else wanted to do it. That bastard... I rolled a natural 20 with a vorpal sword against a nightmare beast. Fucker decided my sword wasn't long enough to decapitate the thing, and it ended up killing the entire party." "Yeah, that session really sucked," concurs Ben Herman, President and CEO. "Dark Sun sucked enough! We ate sand, shit sand, and fought with bones and rocks. Damn thing was enraged when Eric half-cut it's head off and I nearly died escaping with a teleport. But of course, it could somehow track me and kept teleporting after me until I ran out of power. Eventually my character was eaten and shit over a cliff. I think Tony was just mad that he got a speeding ticket earlier that day."
Anthony nearly finished a two-year technical degree at Indian Hills Community College in Ottumwa, IA. However his career already flourishing, he flushed it all away to run the Dragon Mountain series of adventures. Bill Matkovich, Vice President and CTO, recalls, "If Evoc hadn't been wearing those Gloves of Missile Snaring, he'd have been shot dead by that Arrow of Slaying. Instead, I got MVP for that game. Good times... Of course, it cost me another term of college loans to get it."
Not content with ruining or delaying other's college careers, Anthony went on to begin a disastrous marriage to a hell-spawned succubus in 1999. Recovering his soul three years later, he began the long road to recovery aided by many long hours of Ghost Recon. Says Anthony, "If I'd been any decent at making game mods, I'd have remade every mission to include the Plaintiff's face on the enemy soldiers."
Unemployed and nearly an alcoholic, he managed to land a job at Wells Fargo Financial in 2002 where he licked his wounds at the helpdesk and sneered at stupid end-users who couldn't remember their passwords. A year later, he landed a job managing the entire company's workstations. A few years after that, he was promoted to a management position where it was thought he could do the least amount of damage. He contents himself today with online gaming and Cheetos.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Norah Jones?
The_GM gave me some thematic words and less than 500 words to craft a compelling story. You be the judge.
When I saw the break of day, I was reminded of the way a coffee stain spreads along a napkin. Dim light crawled its way onto the blanket of night. Purples and deep reds pushed back the midnight blues to make way for orange-gold clouds rimed with frosty darkness.
I shivered as a chill ripped through me. The stain was devouring the lowest clouds. Funny that I imagined feeling the cold. What point of reference did I have? I’d long since abandoned warmth and sunshine for the Abyss.
My skin started to itch. I wanted to scratch. Hell, I wanted to bolt. Hard prospect when I had a two-inch spike protruding from my chest. Left here. Unable to die. Pinned to a tree like a moth under glass. Moth was such a perfect reference. A croak issued from my throat, the best laugh I could muster past immobile lips. I could almost hear my last feeble flutterings against a pane of glass. That pane of glass was my life. Or whatever semblance of one remained to me.
Strange… my life was a multi-colored blur of emotion before it was so utterly changed. It was all so powerfully confusing. And it seemed so long ago, even though it’d only been a year. And since, all the color had washed out of my world. There was only white-hot hunger and dreary longing.
I tried to stay away, but time only seemed to intensify that final emotion I clung to. Brian stood out stunningly against the wash of gray faces, those I now regarded as food. I came to him, flushed with heat from recent kills. Despite all his questions, he embraced me as he once had. The intensity of our love stayed his curiosity for a while.
But I grew sloppy.
Is love eternal or fickle, or both?
Brian asked me to meet him for a midnight stroll in the park. When we’d first dated, we’d sometimes stay out all night and we’d steal away here in the small hours. There was a small hill with a bent oak at the top. We’d sit in the lower branches and watch the sun rise. This time he glared at me monstrously as he drove the wedge between my breasts, paralyzing me instantly. As he left me there, he said, “I loved you so much, Penny.” I wanted so much to tell him I loved him too.
The itch became a hot tickle that bathed my face and arms. The sun was seconds beyond the horizon. My eyes were already filming over as I watched the sky blaze into a prismatic spray of gorgeous pastel.
It was so beautiful. I wished that I could fly away.
Oh Brian…
When I saw the break of day, I was reminded of the way a coffee stain spreads along a napkin. Dim light crawled its way onto the blanket of night. Purples and deep reds pushed back the midnight blues to make way for orange-gold clouds rimed with frosty darkness.
I shivered as a chill ripped through me. The stain was devouring the lowest clouds. Funny that I imagined feeling the cold. What point of reference did I have? I’d long since abandoned warmth and sunshine for the Abyss.
My skin started to itch. I wanted to scratch. Hell, I wanted to bolt. Hard prospect when I had a two-inch spike protruding from my chest. Left here. Unable to die. Pinned to a tree like a moth under glass. Moth was such a perfect reference. A croak issued from my throat, the best laugh I could muster past immobile lips. I could almost hear my last feeble flutterings against a pane of glass. That pane of glass was my life. Or whatever semblance of one remained to me.
Strange… my life was a multi-colored blur of emotion before it was so utterly changed. It was all so powerfully confusing. And it seemed so long ago, even though it’d only been a year. And since, all the color had washed out of my world. There was only white-hot hunger and dreary longing.
I tried to stay away, but time only seemed to intensify that final emotion I clung to. Brian stood out stunningly against the wash of gray faces, those I now regarded as food. I came to him, flushed with heat from recent kills. Despite all his questions, he embraced me as he once had. The intensity of our love stayed his curiosity for a while.
But I grew sloppy.
Is love eternal or fickle, or both?
Brian asked me to meet him for a midnight stroll in the park. When we’d first dated, we’d sometimes stay out all night and we’d steal away here in the small hours. There was a small hill with a bent oak at the top. We’d sit in the lower branches and watch the sun rise. This time he glared at me monstrously as he drove the wedge between my breasts, paralyzing me instantly. As he left me there, he said, “I loved you so much, Penny.” I wanted so much to tell him I loved him too.
The itch became a hot tickle that bathed my face and arms. The sun was seconds beyond the horizon. My eyes were already filming over as I watched the sky blaze into a prismatic spray of gorgeous pastel.
It was so beautiful. I wished that I could fly away.
Oh Brian…
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)