Sorry I've been gone so long. I've been writing and writing and today I quasi-finished my second draft of Static Attic. What does that mean? Well - I wrote "The End" after about 101 pages in about 2 weeks of writing. But I haven't even read it yet. So I need to go back through it and see how it works. It might not work at all. Oh God I hope it works. Fingers crossed all two of you.
Another reason I'm finished? I've been unemployed since last May. Companies are firing, not hiring now. I have about 2 more months here at this pace before I have to move back in with my parents in Williamsport, PA. Awesome. I have never felt so fucked in all my life.
Please. Let's hope I'm not unsuccessful much longer.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Wednesday, January 21, 2009
I'm back!
It's currently 12:30 pacific standard time in Atwater Village, Los Angeles. I'm in my "office" which is a little sun room of sorts attached to my bedroom. The purpose of this entry is twofold: A.) I'm procrastinating working on my script. B.) I'm hoping to get the juices flowing. This, essentially, is my layup drill before the game.
Sorry I've been gone for so long. As I'm sure you've read, I had a couple neighborhood friends help out. I thought they did a great job.
In local news, a motorcycle cop was struck, presumably by a car this morning. While in my room, I heard police sirens and a circling helicopter literally buzzing the house. I thought, God damn, the cops are really cracking down on this neighborhood. I went outside and followed the commotion, and there, lying prostrate on his back in the middle of the road was a policeman. Firetrucks and cop cars surrounded him. The chopper circling not 200 feet off the ground.
Honestly, I don't know what the helicopter or the firetrucks were doing besides watching along with the rest of the neighborhood. When I arrived on the scene, a medic was checking the policeman's pulse and I thought, "Holy shit. He's dead." But shortly thereafter the officer lifted his arm and pulled off one of his gloves. Thank God. It appears a car, parked on the side of the streets which are notoriously narrow here, pulled out in front of him, flipping him over the hood of the car.
His name is Lawrence Childress. He's been a police officer for 15 years. He's the father of two boys - Eli, 10 years old, and Martin 8 years old. He's once divorced from the mother of his children, Janet Parks. Lawrence lives here in Atwater Village, just up on Glenfeliz. After the divorce, Janet moved in with her mom in Long Beach.
I wasn't able to get any more information. I don't know how severe his injuries are and I couldn't find any news of the accident online. Lawrence is in our thoughts and prayers. I don't pray, but, you know, this is an hispanic neighborhood and they do love them some Jesus, so I'm sure he's getting a lot of Christian prayer power coming his way.
OK. Time to write. The writing's going great, by the way. I've finished my first act and am making my way through the second. My biggest fear at the moment is that it's running way too long. My scenes seem to be around 5 pages a piece, when usually I average about 2. Fingers crossed, I can fix this. Wish me luck. Send good mojo to Officer Childress.
Sorry I've been gone for so long. As I'm sure you've read, I had a couple neighborhood friends help out. I thought they did a great job.
In local news, a motorcycle cop was struck, presumably by a car this morning. While in my room, I heard police sirens and a circling helicopter literally buzzing the house. I thought, God damn, the cops are really cracking down on this neighborhood. I went outside and followed the commotion, and there, lying prostrate on his back in the middle of the road was a policeman. Firetrucks and cop cars surrounded him. The chopper circling not 200 feet off the ground.
Honestly, I don't know what the helicopter or the firetrucks were doing besides watching along with the rest of the neighborhood. When I arrived on the scene, a medic was checking the policeman's pulse and I thought, "Holy shit. He's dead." But shortly thereafter the officer lifted his arm and pulled off one of his gloves. Thank God. It appears a car, parked on the side of the streets which are notoriously narrow here, pulled out in front of him, flipping him over the hood of the car.
His name is Lawrence Childress. He's been a police officer for 15 years. He's the father of two boys - Eli, 10 years old, and Martin 8 years old. He's once divorced from the mother of his children, Janet Parks. Lawrence lives here in Atwater Village, just up on Glenfeliz. After the divorce, Janet moved in with her mom in Long Beach.
I wasn't able to get any more information. I don't know how severe his injuries are and I couldn't find any news of the accident online. Lawrence is in our thoughts and prayers. I don't pray, but, you know, this is an hispanic neighborhood and they do love them some Jesus, so I'm sure he's getting a lot of Christian prayer power coming his way.
OK. Time to write. The writing's going great, by the way. I've finished my first act and am making my way through the second. My biggest fear at the moment is that it's running way too long. My scenes seem to be around 5 pages a piece, when usually I average about 2. Fingers crossed, I can fix this. Wish me luck. Send good mojo to Officer Childress.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Pink Shoes
Hi, Brandon told me I could write something today. I'm Francesca, by the way. Frannie, I guess.
I missed the bus today. I know it was supposed to be a great day and all because Barack Obama officially became our 44th president. But you know what? The inauguration didn't help my seven year old find her pink shoes that she just had to wear to school. Pink shoes that were, inexplicably, in her backpack. And I heard his speech was great. I'm sure it was. I don't really have an opinion on it because while he was speaking, I was literally racing to get Bri, my seven year old, to school on time. She was three minutes late.
Me? I was 45 minutes late. Because I missed the bus. Because of pink shoes in a green backpack. I have to take the bus because my car broke down and I can't afford to have it fixed right now. The radiator is leaking. So is the brake fluid. Actually, they leaked. There's nothing left, so I guess they're done leaking. I can afford to fix one of the two. One out of two doesn't get me to work, though.
I can't explain the fear going through my body as the bus crawled through traffic 45 minutes after the bus I should have been on did the same. I can't lose my job. I have a seven year old and a 12 year old. His name is Lucas. My husband, Ernie, works the graveyard shift at a bottle cap company in the City of Industry. We see each other a few hours a night. I do fabric patching and restoration. You have an old shirt with some holes? I can patch it up, good as new. Not really, but it'll be wearable. We have a nice little four bedroom home here in Atwater, but it's all Ernie and I can do to make our mortgage. I can't be late for work. I can't get fired. And there I was sitting on the bus, inching along in traffic during morning rush hour, 45 minutes late. My palms were sweating...my whole body was sweating, honestly. I was afraid I'd sweat through my clothes before I got there. I didn't bring a change of clothes, of course, so now I was going to show up almost an hour late, wet with sweat and stinking to high heaven.
When I got to work, I vomited apologies all over the office. My boss is a rather stern old, black woman. The no-nonsense type. Brett is her name. I always thought it was an odd name for a woman. She didn't fire me, thank God. But she pulled me into her office and sat me down. I told her what happened and you know what she told me? "She has other shoes? Make her wear the other shoes. Once she gets to school, she'll have forgotten all about the shoes." But Bri wouldn't have forgotten. It would have ruined her whole day. And it would have ruined mine to send her to school without her pink shoes. She wanted her pink shoes and I wanted her to have them. They were a birthday present a few months ago. Brett gave me a "warning." I don't know what it means, she wouldn't say, but it's not good, obviously. I just wanted to die. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
So when one o'clock rolled around, I split for lunch so fast my hair straightened. I went to the sandwich shop across the street - Shanky's - because they have the best tuna fish sandwich in the city and I needed something good today. I waited in line for 15 minutes before I got to the counter and ordered. I started pumping myself up, thinking, "After this tuna fish sandwich, it's a new day. The day starts here. Fresh beginning." But when I reached into my pocketbook for my wallet, it wasn't there. I dug around for a few seconds, futilely, but I knew I forgot it. And I knew where. It was on the dining room table. I pulled it out last night when Lucas asked for money to go to McDonald's.
So there I was, penniless at the counter, my bad day getting worse. I told the man taking my order that I forgot my wallet, apologized, and asked him to cancel. I could feel the tears building in my cheekbones. The thought of the embarrassment that crying at Shanky's would cause only made the impulse to cry stronger, so I braced for the emotional breakdown.
And then the man behind the counter said, "Don't worry about it." Just like that. "Don't worry about it. This one's on the house." He said, "Obama's the president now. Things are going to get better. Si se puede."
And then I did start crying, actually. But it wasn't embarrassing, because I wasn't sad. At the moment it felt like the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. And it was the best tuna fish sandwich I had ever had.
The rest of the day, I kept saying to myself, "Si se puede. Yes we can." Maybe things will get better. I missed the speech, but I bet I got the message.
I missed the bus today. I know it was supposed to be a great day and all because Barack Obama officially became our 44th president. But you know what? The inauguration didn't help my seven year old find her pink shoes that she just had to wear to school. Pink shoes that were, inexplicably, in her backpack. And I heard his speech was great. I'm sure it was. I don't really have an opinion on it because while he was speaking, I was literally racing to get Bri, my seven year old, to school on time. She was three minutes late.
Me? I was 45 minutes late. Because I missed the bus. Because of pink shoes in a green backpack. I have to take the bus because my car broke down and I can't afford to have it fixed right now. The radiator is leaking. So is the brake fluid. Actually, they leaked. There's nothing left, so I guess they're done leaking. I can afford to fix one of the two. One out of two doesn't get me to work, though.
I can't explain the fear going through my body as the bus crawled through traffic 45 minutes after the bus I should have been on did the same. I can't lose my job. I have a seven year old and a 12 year old. His name is Lucas. My husband, Ernie, works the graveyard shift at a bottle cap company in the City of Industry. We see each other a few hours a night. I do fabric patching and restoration. You have an old shirt with some holes? I can patch it up, good as new. Not really, but it'll be wearable. We have a nice little four bedroom home here in Atwater, but it's all Ernie and I can do to make our mortgage. I can't be late for work. I can't get fired. And there I was sitting on the bus, inching along in traffic during morning rush hour, 45 minutes late. My palms were sweating...my whole body was sweating, honestly. I was afraid I'd sweat through my clothes before I got there. I didn't bring a change of clothes, of course, so now I was going to show up almost an hour late, wet with sweat and stinking to high heaven.
When I got to work, I vomited apologies all over the office. My boss is a rather stern old, black woman. The no-nonsense type. Brett is her name. I always thought it was an odd name for a woman. She didn't fire me, thank God. But she pulled me into her office and sat me down. I told her what happened and you know what she told me? "She has other shoes? Make her wear the other shoes. Once she gets to school, she'll have forgotten all about the shoes." But Bri wouldn't have forgotten. It would have ruined her whole day. And it would have ruined mine to send her to school without her pink shoes. She wanted her pink shoes and I wanted her to have them. They were a birthday present a few months ago. Brett gave me a "warning." I don't know what it means, she wouldn't say, but it's not good, obviously. I just wanted to die. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
So when one o'clock rolled around, I split for lunch so fast my hair straightened. I went to the sandwich shop across the street - Shanky's - because they have the best tuna fish sandwich in the city and I needed something good today. I waited in line for 15 minutes before I got to the counter and ordered. I started pumping myself up, thinking, "After this tuna fish sandwich, it's a new day. The day starts here. Fresh beginning." But when I reached into my pocketbook for my wallet, it wasn't there. I dug around for a few seconds, futilely, but I knew I forgot it. And I knew where. It was on the dining room table. I pulled it out last night when Lucas asked for money to go to McDonald's.
So there I was, penniless at the counter, my bad day getting worse. I told the man taking my order that I forgot my wallet, apologized, and asked him to cancel. I could feel the tears building in my cheekbones. The thought of the embarrassment that crying at Shanky's would cause only made the impulse to cry stronger, so I braced for the emotional breakdown.
And then the man behind the counter said, "Don't worry about it." Just like that. "Don't worry about it. This one's on the house." He said, "Obama's the president now. Things are going to get better. Si se puede."
And then I did start crying, actually. But it wasn't embarrassing, because I wasn't sad. At the moment it felt like the nicest thing anyone had ever done for me. And it was the best tuna fish sandwich I had ever had.
The rest of the day, I kept saying to myself, "Si se puede. Yes we can." Maybe things will get better. I missed the speech, but I bet I got the message.
Monday, January 19, 2009
A Note from Julian
Yo, what up? This is Julian. I work at The Village Market sometimes on Silver Lake and Atwater. My man, B, comes by every once and a while, buys a Mountain Dew. Honestly, I think that shit's disgusting, but, you know, I ain't here to judge. Anyway, hombre's been writing and complaining to me about his damn blog, and to be honest, I'm just sick of people fucking complaining all the fucking time, so I said I'd write something.
I got a couple things I want to mention. For one, the ATM in the market doesn't work. Why? Because the company went out of business. They went bankrupt. Yeah, a company whose job it is to give other people money apparently ran out of money to give. And every day, people look at the sign on the machine -- "Company Went Bankrupt" -- laugh and shake their heads. It's the same fucking reaction every time. I see probably 50 people a day, and it's the same reaction, and I'm thinking, "Doesn't anybody have a fucking heart?" The company went bankrupt! People lost their jobs. This wasn't some Wall Street company, these guys just made ATMs. And everyone laughs when they see the sign. I live in a town full of heartless ass holes.
It is kind of funny. The irony of it. I just wish someone, anyone, would see the sign and say, "Aw. That's too bad."
Speaking of ass holes, my little sister came into the store with some fucking chingada hipster mother fucker with skin tight jeans, a gold piece around his neck, and the stupidest fucking haircut you've ever seen in your life. She's giggling all over the place like she's gone insane, and the dude looks like he's tripping on some shit my cousin' V sold him. Then, get this, they sneak back to where the sodas are and start making out. How do I know this? 'Cause the fuckin' store's got fuckin' mirrors all over the place, so I'm stuck there behind the counter watching this fuckin' cabrón cop a feel on my sister.
(A few words about my sister. She's a slut. I'm pretty sure she was giving hand jobs in the bathroom in fourth grade. If that wasn't enough, she comes into the market and steals condoms. I see her steal them because she's the worst shoplifter in the world, but I let her because nobody as stupid as her or as young as her - she's 16 this February - should ever ever EVER reproduce. So steal away you fuckin' slut.)
And fuck this tight jeans, gold chain wearing, high as a fucking balloon at the Macy's parade, puta madre who's after the easiest lay in Los Angeles. Next time he comes in my store, I'm beating his pussy ass with a loaf of bread and a can a beans. (But I probably won't need the can of beans. Puta.)
And fuck bankrupt ATMs and the people who laugh at them. That schadenfreude'll come back to bite you in the ass.
Yeah, I know the word schadenfreude.
Peace,
Julian
I got a couple things I want to mention. For one, the ATM in the market doesn't work. Why? Because the company went out of business. They went bankrupt. Yeah, a company whose job it is to give other people money apparently ran out of money to give. And every day, people look at the sign on the machine -- "Company Went Bankrupt" -- laugh and shake their heads. It's the same fucking reaction every time. I see probably 50 people a day, and it's the same reaction, and I'm thinking, "Doesn't anybody have a fucking heart?" The company went bankrupt! People lost their jobs. This wasn't some Wall Street company, these guys just made ATMs. And everyone laughs when they see the sign. I live in a town full of heartless ass holes.
It is kind of funny. The irony of it. I just wish someone, anyone, would see the sign and say, "Aw. That's too bad."
Speaking of ass holes, my little sister came into the store with some fucking chingada hipster mother fucker with skin tight jeans, a gold piece around his neck, and the stupidest fucking haircut you've ever seen in your life. She's giggling all over the place like she's gone insane, and the dude looks like he's tripping on some shit my cousin' V sold him. Then, get this, they sneak back to where the sodas are and start making out. How do I know this? 'Cause the fuckin' store's got fuckin' mirrors all over the place, so I'm stuck there behind the counter watching this fuckin' cabrón cop a feel on my sister.
(A few words about my sister. She's a slut. I'm pretty sure she was giving hand jobs in the bathroom in fourth grade. If that wasn't enough, she comes into the market and steals condoms. I see her steal them because she's the worst shoplifter in the world, but I let her because nobody as stupid as her or as young as her - she's 16 this February - should ever ever EVER reproduce. So steal away you fuckin' slut.)
And fuck this tight jeans, gold chain wearing, high as a fucking balloon at the Macy's parade, puta madre who's after the easiest lay in Los Angeles. Next time he comes in my store, I'm beating his pussy ass with a loaf of bread and a can a beans. (But I probably won't need the can of beans. Puta.)
And fuck bankrupt ATMs and the people who laugh at them. That schadenfreude'll come back to bite you in the ass.
Yeah, I know the word schadenfreude.
Peace,
Julian
Friday, January 16, 2009
Sorry
Actually writing. I'm like a machine, right now. A writing machine.
My neighbor owns a chicken. The fucker won't stop clucking.
Back with more soon. Here's a picture:
My neighbor owns a chicken. The fucker won't stop clucking.
Back with more soon. Here's a picture:
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
GTA means Grand Theft Auto
This morning about 13 police cars and a police chopper descended outside my front door. The cars flew eastbound and out of sight, and then promptly returned, skirting around my corner. Eventually they decided to set up base about 200 yards from my house. Curious, I cautiously made my way toward them, until I was stopped by a police car blocking off the perimeter. (As an experienced production assistant, often told to "lock down the perimeter" I immediately sympathized with my brothers in blockade.) I asked the officer what was going on and he was kind enough to tell me they were looking for a GTA suspect. "Is he running or hiding?" I asked. "He's hiding," responded the officer. "And you're pretty sure he's hiding in one of those houses?" "Yeah. He's not going anywhere." "Great. 'Cause I live here," I said.
I then relayed to my neighbor what the cop told me. "Oh yeah," she said. "A lot of the kids down here are breaking into cars all the time. When you hear my dogs bark at night, they're barking at the kids peeking into the cars."
I didn't realize it until this morning, but this is the worst neighborhood I've ever lived in. The house is nice-ish (it doesn't have heat and it doesn't insulate so I'm basically paying to camp indoors - I literally slept in my sleeping bag until I got heavier blankets), my room is bigger than any room I've had before, but I suppose there's a reason I can afford such a room.
When I'm older and wealthier, I'm going to tell people about the time I lived in the ghetto.
Honestly, though, this isn't the ghetto. That's just what I'm going to tell people. You know, to up my street cred.
Oh - Pop Doyle requested pictures. Here ya go, Pop.
Atwater Village, CA. Jan. 13, 2009. Picture taken from my bedroom window.
I then relayed to my neighbor what the cop told me. "Oh yeah," she said. "A lot of the kids down here are breaking into cars all the time. When you hear my dogs bark at night, they're barking at the kids peeking into the cars."
I didn't realize it until this morning, but this is the worst neighborhood I've ever lived in. The house is nice-ish (it doesn't have heat and it doesn't insulate so I'm basically paying to camp indoors - I literally slept in my sleeping bag until I got heavier blankets), my room is bigger than any room I've had before, but I suppose there's a reason I can afford such a room.
When I'm older and wealthier, I'm going to tell people about the time I lived in the ghetto.
Honestly, though, this isn't the ghetto. That's just what I'm going to tell people. You know, to up my street cred.
Oh - Pop Doyle requested pictures. Here ya go, Pop.
Atwater Village, CA. Jan. 13, 2009. Picture taken from my bedroom window.Day 10
Part of the point of this blog was to elucidate just how mundane and meaningless my life is. And since I save most of my musical, movie, political, social commentary for The Static, I really don't have anything to write today.
So we're gonna do some free association:
Shower
Soap
Prison
Sodomy
Prop 8
Bigots
Mormons
Polygamy
Big Love
Chloe Sevigny
(I danced with her at Punky Reggae at La Cita)
(By "danced with" I mean stared at her trying to figure out if she was, in fact, Chloe Sevigny until she walked away. I concluded that she was indeed Chloe Sevigny.)
Did I ever tell you about the time I danced with Michelle Branch?
Or the time my friend got shot down by Kirsten Dunst who, when asked if she wanted to dance, laughed and said, "Why? So you can tell all your friends?"
Jennifer Anniston (associated from "friends")
Did you see her naked spread in GQ? (It's on the left.) I think Jennifer Anniston is incredibly beautiful. But the GQ shots weren't particularly sexy even though she was completely naked. Here's why, I think: A.) She appears to be doing an impression of her cat, no? And B.) Anniston's appeal has a lot to do with her girl-next-door, check that, unbelievably-obscene-good luck-I-can't-believe-she's-the-girl-next-door, approachable thing. So when she did the GQ cover, she was beaming ear to ear. Smiling all over the place. This is why men love her. She's the opposite of intimidating. But when have you seen naked women in magazines, porn, on TV, etc. smiling? They don't! They stare seductively. They pout. They look dangerous and unattainable. All of which goes against Jennifer Anniston's niche appeal. Didn't the photographer know this? Why did he let her smile like that? Why didn't he tell her to "make love to the camera"?
I should be a photographer. Clearly, I'd be much better at it that than writing. I know how to make naked women pout.
um...
OK. That's enough word association for today.
So we're gonna do some free association:
Shower
Soap
Prison
Sodomy
Prop 8
Bigots
Mormons
Polygamy
Big Love
Chloe Sevigny
(I danced with her at Punky Reggae at La Cita)
(By "danced with" I mean stared at her trying to figure out if she was, in fact, Chloe Sevigny until she walked away. I concluded that she was indeed Chloe Sevigny.)
Did I ever tell you about the time I danced with Michelle Branch? And Marissa Tomei?
Or the time my friend got shot down by Kirsten Dunst who, when asked if she wanted to dance, laughed and said, "Why? So you can tell all your friends?"Jennifer Anniston (associated from "friends")
Did you see her naked spread in GQ? (It's on the left.) I think Jennifer Anniston is incredibly beautiful. But the GQ shots weren't particularly sexy even though she was completely naked. Here's why, I think: A.) She appears to be doing an impression of her cat, no? And B.) Anniston's appeal has a lot to do with her girl-next-door, check that, unbelievably-obscene-good luck-I-can't-believe-she's-the-girl-next-door, approachable thing. So when she did the GQ cover, she was beaming ear to ear. Smiling all over the place. This is why men love her. She's the opposite of intimidating. But when have you seen naked women in magazines, porn, on TV, etc. smiling? They don't! They stare seductively. They pout. They look dangerous and unattainable. All of which goes against Jennifer Anniston's niche appeal. Didn't the photographer know this? Why did he let her smile like that? Why didn't he tell her to "make love to the camera"?I should be a photographer. Clearly, I'd be much better at it that than writing. I know how to make naked women pout.
um...
OK. That's enough word association for today.
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