I could use some feedback, from any one who actually reads this (if, indeed, any one does). This April 11th marks the three year anniversary of Kurt Vonnegut's death. Each year, I have written (for my own enjoyment, and in honor of my personal hero) a short story that serves as an homage to the late author. I try my best to write them in the style of Vonnegut, and using themes in keeping with his. It's nerdy, whatever. I like doing it.

This year, however, I have decided to make an attempt to get my attempt published in the major news paper for the Indianapolis area (once home to Vonnegut). Maybe see if I can help arrange a small collection of his fans to contribute literary tributes to be included in the April 11th edition of said paper.

It may (read: Probably) not work, but why not give it a shot?

I have two ideas that I've been mulling over, and am not sure which to go with. Without risking the whole stories, here are the basic ideas behind both. If you have the time, please let me know which of the two you think would be the most interesting to go with.

Idea One: A man is stuck on an island, all alone. Every week, the man sends a message in a bottle out to sea, hoping to alert some form of civilization of his plight. He wants to be rescued. Every week he does this, and help never comes. At last, a bottle washes up on the shore. Inside is a message, and after enough of these show up it is revealed that the Man is having a conversation with God. In his final bottle, the Man asks God why he won't save the Man. God sends one last bottle, and in its message informs the Man that he is saving him by keeping him on that island. For on that island, there are no wars, no poverty, sickness, etc.

Idea Two: A satirical piece that looks at technology. The point being: While we make great strides in tech, our planet is dying. Instead of making tech that fixes our world, we make inventions that train us to perform our tasks (and, really, live our lives) from inside of our homes. So while we could save the planet, we admit defeat and use our resources to prolong our lives that we shall forever carry out inside shelters, eventually becoming machines that thrive off of convenience, not necessity. Examples of such tech would be: Phones that play movies and games, computers that allow us to socialize without the "burden" of meeting face-to-face, etc... all stuff we already have, but don't really need.

I'm not saying either story is groundbreaking or amazing, but which would make for a more compelling, interesting story?

Thanks, and have a great day.

Oy... So I figured I'd put my health at the top of my priorities and finally quit smoking. Went out and bought some patches today. I don't know if any one out there has bought any of these things before, but they seem every bit as volatile as smoking itself (the number of times they had to warn me to dispose of each patch as if I were burying a nuclear bomb with a cracked casing... it's concerning).

I think I only smoke cigarettes when I get bored, so it might have been a better idea to just stop being so boring. Should the patches fail, maybe I'll pick-up rock climbing.


This next week is gonna be all sorts of crazy. My film production group starts shooting our final project, and the schedule is something along these lines:

Monday: Blocking (planning camera shots) for eight hours.
Tuesday: Pre-light (nailing down our lighting schemes) of the set for eight hours.
Wednesday - Saturday: Twelve hours of filming per day.

This wouldn't be so bad, but I am going to be an assistant to the VTR guy (who looks at a screen and presses a button every now and then), which is to say that I will be spending my time on set looking for something else to do. Hopefully there will be plenty of extra jobs to be shared.

I kind of feel like I could use a cigarette just thinking about it.


So I took a pal to the doctor's office yesterday. He had to go in for minor (albeit a rather humbling) surgery. Went to the Surgicenter in Downtown Orlando, a place I wouldn't recommend to my worst enemy. Aside from every patient being made to wait for their doctor to show up for surgery (it seemed that an hour after schedule was common), the front desk staff was pretty rude.

At one point, this kindly woman in her sixties and I were the only ones left in the waiting room. We had both arrived around six in the morning, and there we sat at 11:30. I had nothing better to do, so the wait wasn't as bad for me. The woman, however, was waiting for her husband to finish surgery o his shoulder -- surgery which started at seven. In that time, she had heard nothing from the doctor, nor his nurse. Given that her husband was elderly, she was beginning to worry.

The poor lady goes up to the front desk to acquire news about her husband; any update of any kind. Every one behind the front desk looked at the woman as if they had asked her for something more precious than their time, and promptly ignored her. The woman began crying and inquired once more, but she was met with the same cold reception (pun intended).

The woman settled back to her seat, and I figured I would try to make small talk with her. At her husband's age, and given the way this place ran... Who knew what was going on, and that had to be scary. As it happens, after I asked her how long it had been since she heard anything, the door opened up and they called her back.

We chatted briefly later, but I hope it eased her worries a bit to have some one notice her.


And, uh, I guess there's not much else going on. Just getting some rest before Hell Week. Maybe get some sun.

Take care!

Recent Happenings

I'm not sure any one actually follows these posts, but in the off chance any one is bored and comes across this... Well, it's a little light reading to pass the time.

I am nearing the end of my time at my current university, with only two more months until graduation. Right now, we are filming our final project (our thesis, I suppose. Being a film, though, its collaborative nature takes the edge off) two weeks from now. It promises to be grueling, demanding, and challenging in all respects. Never the less, it should be an exciting and gratifying experience. It's hard to believe that a year ago I had nothing positive to say about the school/program. It has become a decision I am glad I made, and I can certainly see the personal growth I have gone through.

Moments like that make life terribly exciting.

So It Goes...

I have begun re-writing a very personal project that I began last winter, but had to abandon because my school schedule got far too difficult to manage. It is a bio-pic for my personal hero, Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. For those unfamiliar with the man, he is (in my opinion) one of the greatest contemporary American authors. He was responsible for the books "Slaughter-House Five", "Player Piano", and "Breakfast of Champions" (amongst countless others).



I have decided to attempt to make the narrative as unconventional as his own works were, as a story of his life should be told in no other fashion. I aim to have Kurt (through each stage of his life) break the fourth wall, briefly musing upon each chapter of his life. Each passage will be cobbled together from direct quotes (both from books and interviews), and hopefully serve to punctuate each chapter instead of coming off as a gimmick. That, of course, remains to be seen once all is written and re-written.


Where to go from here?

Now that I am coming to the end of my current educational endeavor, I am faced with one of the most exciting, difficult, and potentially expensive decisions one must face: Where do I go from here?

It's not that Orlando (or Florida in general) is a terrible place for one to find one's self, but it is certainly a different scene than I am accustomed to. Perhaps it is on account of my colleagues in class, but Orlando strikes me as a sort of limbo for the Los Angeles bound. And I'm not referring to the cool, down-to-earth types who live in L.A -- it's more that Orlando seems to be a magnet for people who want to live in the style-over-substance portion of L.A., but they are neither talented or "good" looking enough. Their values, attitudes and scruples are no less shallow.

I am self aware enough to know that I am no perfect being, so I say this all as an observation, not a condemnation.

Some friends have gotten it in their heads to head for Paraguay. Assuncsion (which I've probably spelled completely wrong), to be precise. At the moment I am supposed to be joining them, but now that I have lost my desire to make films... given their plans to do just that... it seems as though I should find another path.

Right now, I am playing with he idea of looking for work in the San Diego/San Francisco area. I remember visiting the two cities when I was younger, and I remember falling in love with them. I don't know if I'd feel the same these days, but one never can say for certain. If any one reads this and has positive things to say about where they reside, please feel free to share with me. The more options I have, the better.


As for now, that seems to be the nuts-and-bolts of this crazy machine. Should anything else come up, I'll probably write about it.

"Maxwell and The Piecemeal Rooster"

Maxwell sat with his back against the eastern wall of his living room. In his lap sat pieces of metal and other piecemeal trinkets, scattered and varied, and he attempted to arrange them in a meaningful way. He told himself he was working on something important, but really he was just tinkering. All he did these days was tinker. It kept him pre-occupied, and though his creations amounted to nothing more than monuments to his wasted time, he assured himself they bore more importance than that.

He never quite believed it, but he could hardly fault himself for trying.

Maxwell spoke when no one was around, as it was hard to feel ignored or forgotten that way. He could always hear his voice, his words that, too, bore little consequence in the grand scheme of things. Admittedly, Maxwell held only the vaguest of interests in what he had to say. He'd already heard it all before, and knew every word as if it had sprung from his own mind only moments prior.

It wasn't until late into the evening that Maxwell completed his most recent work. It stood four inches from the ground, and held an awkward gaze with two differently colored buttons for eyes. It looked, as near as he could figure it, like a rooster. Only instead of feathers, it was covered in a plumage of silver paperclips. You had to squint in order to see the scotch-tape that held them all together, but even then Maxwell could not have cared less. It wasn't for showing off, any way.

Maxwell sat the rooster on a nearby hutch, then he backed away and stared at it with great scrutiny, almost expectantly. There, on the hutch, the sculpture sat still as could be. It looked into Maxwell's weary eyes, which themselves were a single color. Brown, and sad, looking as if they searched every moment for the faintest sign of any meaning in whatever they saw.

Maxwell slowly melted back onto the floor, his gaze never breaking away from the rooster. He fell asleep in that position.

The next day, Maxwell woke to see the rooster staring down at him. It cocked its head curiously, and blinked several times. Maxwell, for lack of a better idea, mimicked the rooster's behavior. This, of course, caused the small aluminum bird to step in his direction. And so it did, to the very edge of the hutch, looking down at the ground as if to wager with itself whether or not to attempt jumping to the berber carpet below. The rooster decided against it, and looked up lovingly at Maxwell with its mostly empty eyes.

Maxwell rose to his feet and took the rooster in his hands, coddling it like a mother would her baby. He sat back down in the corner, holding the rooster in his lap. It began to coo, and eventually the cooing formed words.

It told Maxwell everything he wanted to hear, every word of encouragement he felt could make his life seem worthwhile. It told him he was loved, missed and adored. It told him that all of his tinkering was adding up to something monumental. It told him that he was acting rightly, and that he always had, and that people were really drawn to that. Then, finally, it ended the pep talk by embracing his left thumb and index finger.

As the rooster cooed, Maxwell slowly forced his palms together, crushing and bending the little bird until it cooed no longer. He tossed the warped wire carcass across the room, where it landed atop a pile of other broken creations. He knew it was lying to him, and telling him only what he wanted to hear. It was after all a mechanical creation, capable of performing only what it was designed to. Its words were empty, and they were words Maxwell had never even attempted to say to himself.

If he couldn't even muster the faith to think them himself, what good were the words coming from a rooster made of paperclips, buttons, and tape?

And once more, not much is going on. But I like to write, even if only a short little blurb about life every so often. Activity is like bran for my brain: It keeps things regular.

My screenwriting class proposal did not go so well. Sparing details, the guy I met with just didn't get it. I also believe by the time the meeting took place, both He and I were confused as to why this meeting had been set up -- the man has nothing to do with the screenwriting course, nor does he have the power to get anything done in the school. Suffice it to say, Dave Franko (head of the Film Program) is an awful matchmaker.

On the bright side, however, I did mention my ideas to the head of the Writing Department (my creative writing teacher) and he seemed very excited to give the proposal a once over. If nothing else, his enthusiasm is higher than the man I met with "officially". What is it they say? "If you want something done right, do it yourself"? Yeah, that sounds about right.

Been a little rough the last few weeks. May be failing my Math course (numbers and I haven't spoken in some time, and it shows), had a check bounce and got threatened with eviction, and feelings of regret about many recent decisions have been plaguing my mind like a thousand rats on the streets of Old Century London. But none of that is here or there, as I assured myself a long time ago that whatever the sacrifice, it would all be necessary in order to progress in life.

If I keep saying that enough, surely it will become true. I'm almost positive that's how things work.

That's pretty much the skinny in my neck o' the woods. Thanks for allowing me to waste/spend some of your precious time. We all gottsta vent some times, eh?

Not much going on. Stuck in my Computer Internet Science class, learning about hubs and such. Only two more months until we get into the classes that actually teach us about filmmaking. Damn political science classes -- waste my tuition, will you?

Though when it comes to learning, nothing's really a waste. But I digress.

No word yet on a set date for my proposition for the screenwriting program, but in all fairness I haven't been able to make time for it on my end. Hopefully next week.

Been making fair progress on my latest screenplay, though I have hit a few snags here and there. It's all part of the fine, often painful art that is writing. I'm sure most of you who write will agree that the end result is almost always worth the trouble.

And... That about sums it up.

I still don't know who I am going to vote for*. I liked to think that I'd have made up my mind by this point, but...

There isn't anything, no quality what-so-ever, to either of the candidates that inspires any optimism or excitement in me. On one hand, we have McCaine, who purportedly isn't "Republican" enough for the Right. His history as a war vet and his present as a crotchety old man leads me to believe otherwise. On the other hand, we have Obama -- The Champion of "Change". Change, however, is vague and ambiguous in-and-of-itself. While the road we are on clearly isn't working, changing our course can either be beneficial or harmful. And change doesn't just happen. Rome wasn't built in a day, as the Fella says.

Who's to say that, if not elected for a second term, Obama can muster and solidify this "change" in his Presidency? If he starts and, come election time, is replaced by another candidate touting such a vague goal, who is to say whatever good Obama can manage will not be immediately undone?

What's worse is the continuing problem of a political system built around "special interests". On one hand, we have a party that would see the rich getting richer. On the other hand, some would see the poor profit beyond recent recollection. I have no love for the rich, and no disdain for the poor (those who cannot pick themselves up by the boot-strap, at any rate); however, this country was built by (and mainly consists of) the men and women in the middle -- neither rich, nor poor.

Still, it is the middle that feels the pang of economic hardship, the bite of social uncertainty. While the rich remain as such, as the poor remain poor, the Middle Schmuck (that's what they've been reduced to for decades now) can fall on either side of the fence at any given moment. They live an existence with territory staked upon the edge of a knife; it could go either way. While the parties bicker over who sustains and supports the "common man", neither truly do.

All the while, the Middle Ground wavers from left to right. The unstable footing could give way at any time, and the last solid foundation for the country could come crashing down. Then we are left with only The "Rich" and The "Lecherous". This is why the country needs -- no, clamors for -- a candidate whose aim is not to help one third of the nation, but the whole nation.

Of course, were such a candidate to emerge come next election, I am certain he/she would stand no chance in the polls. After all, whichever candidate truly desires a win can always buy it. It's happened before, countless times I am certain.

Alas, we live in a day and an age when being a Moderate is akin to being a "Socialist" (or even the dreaded "Communist"). Capitalism does not thrive off of families that can barely manage to make ends meet, as they are ignored by those who would promise to represent them. And brick-by-brick, the fragile wall between Stability and Instability begins to weather and erode. Most would rather see the country collapse (with most on top, of course) than be labeled something as vile and awful as "Socialist" as our home remains stable.

"A house divided cannot stand."

I'm willing to bet most of my countrymen would be unable to tell me who said this, and therein lies the problem. Instead of fighting for what America could have/should have been, and instead of emulating men like Washington or Lincoln, the big questions are: "Who can be the next Reagan?" or "Who can be the next Clinton?" As if either man did enough good to deserve such respect. And, depending upon where you may stand on the political spectrum, you will either love me or hate me for saying that.

We fought and bled (and, regretfully, even murdered) for a country that gave power and rights to the common man/woman. Whatever you think of tactics in our past, remember that every civilization exists because they fought, bled and, yes, even murdered in order to sustain what they felt was right and just.

But back on topic...

This country was founded for the sake of the man/woman who had no loyalty to "left" nor "right". But along came "change", and now there can only be two acceptable walks of life. Any other road seems a path to heresy and disloyalty. And while I, myself, clamor for "change" I am also aware of where it can take us. And in this country, there are only two choices: The Left, or The Right.

I don't know about any of you, but to me the future down either path looks rather grim. They've already proven themselves as such.






* Fuck it. I'll cast my vote for Christopher Walken.

Not that any one reads this, but I've gotta get the word out.

So the film school I attend has been in need of a solid, thorough screenwriting class. Thing is, the school spends more time on the "technical" aspects of the business and art (camera, sound, etc).

The other day I was feeling quite brazen, so I shot off an email to the head of the department. I tell him that I think the school needs a better program, and that I've got a few ideas. He tells me he wants to hear 'em, so I reply with a very brief outline.

Long story short, I've got a meeting next monday with the Head of Storytelling and Motion Picture Arts. He wants to meet and discuss the class (my ideas, wishes and such) to see if we can make it a reality.

Two months in and I might be designing a film school course. Fingers crossed, man.

Fingers crossed.

"Take another hit, Marsh. 'An apple a day', or so they say". Her words soothed their way into Marshall's ears, their unintended sultriness worked their magic.

It had been one of those days for, what three months now? He wasn't a user on any ordinary day. He also didn't spend time with most people on any ordinary day. Comfort was in his own head, where his mind served as the architect to so many different worlds -- some exciting, others just as drab and insignificant as his own.

Fiona had a way about her, though. Her calm demeanor a perfect match for her sky blue eyes, which often reminded Marshall of cold, crystalline waters one might find in the middle of a desert. When he looked into them, when he allowed himself to get lost in their depths, it was like nothing else on Earth.

He certainly wasn't a dupe by any means, but Fiona could sell a years worth of grass clippings so long as he submerged himself in those pools.

She passed Marshall the glass pipe with great care. "So what's the deal with the briefcase, Marsh?" She chuckled, "Rob a bank or something?"

Marshall took the pipe, his attention on the hand-me-down leather-bound case that had sat at his feet for the last four hours. He couldn't tell her, not because he didn't want her to know but because her, himself, had no idea what may have rest inside.

Fiona listened close, a faint rhythm echoed through the case. "Some sort of clock or something?"

Or something, Marshall thought to himself. Hell if he knew. But it throbbed, whatever it was. The dead frenchman didn't leave him any hints, nor instructions. That was for sure. Just handed it over with his last breath, a river of crimson velvet flowing from his stomach.

Hell if I know, he thought. Hell if I know.