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Emcee Pink

Mike Pence. If you were to make up a name for a governor who was so goddamned no-nonsense, he looked like this hair was tattooed on for the sake of efficiency, you might just land on the name “Mike Pence.”

Mike Pence. A name you can trust, without a bunch of unnecessary vowels and syllables. All-American, like shitty reality shows, shitty sitcoms, and shit beer.

Mike! Pence!

Our country needs a vice president with a name that hits hard, but with a thud like a blunt object. You want businesses to treat gays with the respect that the constitution and the Supreme Court affords them? Well, here’s a stack of bibles for ya, bucko. Enjoy the THUD of GOD. How do you like that? Mike Pence don’t play around, no sir.

We are not a nation of losers looking for handouts. Mike Pence! So all of you slow elderly losers, and smelly unemployed losers, and undateable disabled losers can go blow it out your loser a-holes. OK? OK!

Mike Pence!


But, how will it end?

The world seems mad at the moment. It seems as if every coalition formed over the last century is in danger of disintegrating. Up is down. Black is white. The worst of 80s fashion is back, and Donald Trump is a serious presidential candidate. It feels as if we’re all walking around in a shared fugue state, just lumbering forward into a pointless future, pointlessly.

None of this is new. History is rife with tales of calamity. We’re overdue for some major worldwide catastrophe.

At least it won’t be boring. I’m already on the edge of my seat.

Does Anyone Even Want This Salad?

I’m boring lately. I hope it’s all for good.

My life right now consists of me getting as much writing done as possible. When I’m not writing, I give myself hell. I have about 90 pages of a first draft of a screenplay written so far. On some days, I imagine my Oscar acceptance speech and my 60-Minutes interview with Anderson Cooper. Those are the good days. The salad days.

And then, after a while, that salad turns into a soggy mush of unrecognizable, insubstantial nothing, as salad does. I don’t know what you’d call those days.

  • The Overcooked Spinach Days?
  • The Toothless Tapioca Days?
  • The Days of The Red Pen of Harsh Self-Reproachment?

typewriter reading: Bullshit.

Right now I’m in the middle of a salad time, and I’m trying to stay with it as long as I can. Let’s just get this thing written. And if it turns out to be insubstantial crap that leaves a bad taste in your mouth, so be it. At least I won’t have it over my head any more. I will go out and move on with my life, which is… wait. Who am I? What am I doing?

Maybe it’s bullshit. I can’t know at this point.

The Year That Will Be

Screen Shot 2015-01-01 at 1.55.03 PM

Happy New Year. If you’re reading this, you’ve survived long enough to write “2015” on a document or check. [Note to self: Rent due today.]

I’m going to spend the day planning and writing a script that I am determined to finish this year. I wrote about 50 pages last year, which might seem impressive until you realize that that’s less than half of a full film script, and that I left off right at the end of the first act, leaving myself the whole meaty middle part of the story to complete. So that’s what I will be doing over the next 4 days. I have mapped out a plan of attack, and aim to have 20 more pages written by the end of Sunday.

Writing is a pain, and it’s not glamorous. But when I’m able to channel my thoughts into some sort of cohesive story and put the pieces together in a way that just might make sense — there’s something about that satisfying flow that just cannot be beat. I love taking a mass of strange, seemingly unrelated ideas and making them work. It’s like hosting a dinner party with friends from different parts of your life who are unfamiliar with one another, and marveling at the conversations that emerge between them. You pat yourself on the back for bringing them into the same room, but it then you step back, let go, and enjoy. It’s not yours any more.

So that’s my plan for days 1-4 of the new year. Then I’ll keep working on the script in a class that starts in late January. We’ll end the class with a scene reading in a local theater with real actors, which is fills me with 3 parts glee to 1 part terror. Then I’ll need to figure out what to do next, which flips the glee:terror ratio on its head.

“Obligatory inspirational happiness quote to ring in the new year.” ~Some Dead Famous Person

Welcome to the new year. It looks much like the old year, but it does have that new year smell.



I’m Fancy-Free, and Free for Anything Fancy

No yens. No yearnings. No strings. No connections.

I’m going through an interesting phase right now, during which I’m quite enjoying being unattached. I’m consciously uncoupled. Not seeking out love connections of any kind. It feels pretty good, and not in a Lets-Say-We’re-Happy-To-Cover-Up-Our-Deeply-Hidden-Fears-and-Keep-Our-Concerned-Relatives-Off-Guard sort of way.

I am not feeling desperately incomplete or like I am in a situation that needs fixing. I’m not resentful or closed off to the idea of ever being in a relationship – but I am enjoying this freedom. I am working, writing, attending classes, volunteering, and spending time with friends, but I also genuinely treasure my time alone.

Life feels full of opportunities. It reminds me of this Fred Astaire bit from the movie Top Hat. (Yes, I own it as part of a DVD box set, as I’m a bit of a Fred-and-Ginger buff.)

Why isn’t this feeling celebrated more often on film?