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March 31, 2005
Who are these people?
I'm revising my screenplay for the fifth time.
The structure is tight, but the characters lack sufficient depth and motivation. Two players in particular -- the lead female and the villain -- are giving me no end of trouble.
She should be easy -- once I've locked in her backstory, her motivations should be clearer. The Bad Guy's a harder nut to crack. How far should I go to humanize the antagonist?
I look forward to nailing these characters down to the page so they'll quit squirming and making a nuisance.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 07:53 PM | Comments (0)
March 28, 2005
Inspiration falls on my foot.
Cleaning the kitchen this morning, and listening to streaming MP3 of The Shadow, my favorite radio program. I set the PowerBook on the counter of a built-in storage unit and pulled out the chopping board to set out laptop speakers.
The handle came off in my hand, and the inch-thick pine board fell edgewise on the bridge of my foot. Comic hilarity ensued: me, hopping on one foot in my jammies and cursing a blue streak as my cat watches serenely. Sounds like the premise for a New Yorker cartoon.
The cutting board is probably as old as the built-in unit, which I would estimate is pre-war. As a mundane home improvement project, I'm now evaluating wood types so I may make a replacement with these two hands.
I laid out the pieces on the kitchen floor and took measurements on a notepad I glommed years ago from The Mondrian. If I had some woodworking skills like a few people I know, I'd do some fancy tongue-in-groove job. I'm not the handiest person I know, which is why a project like this is interesting. I'm pushing my personal limits here.
I was a trifle effaced after sharing my plans with L.
"Sure, but why don't we just glue the handle back on, and not use it?"
And she's got a good point.
The cutting board is diagonally across the kitchen from the sink and stove, making it extremely unergonomic. Still, I think having more planes in the kitchen is ultimately a good thing, so I'm proceeding.
If you have ideas for wood types I should go with, lemme know. Watch this space for more developments in this fascinating saga.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:44 PM | Comments (0)
March 25, 2005
For the record.
If there's no chance for recovery, I don't wish to be kept alive in a minimally conscious state, nor do I wish to be maintained in a vegetative state.
My consciousness distinguishes me as an individual. Without awareness, this body would be an empty vessel.
Man, I used to think I was cyncical -- until the Bush brothers and fellow pond scum like DeLay, Frist and Hastert inserted themselves into what is a private family matter.
I won't catalogue it all here, but it will suffice to say that these people sicken me. There's literally nothing they won't say or do if they think it will increase their chances to take/hold power.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 03:47 PM | Comments (0)
On character.
According to director Jean Renoir, "all of us are villains. And we are all of us good. It depends on the day, it depends on the way we slept during the night, on the quality of the coffee."
Posted by Your Protagonist at 12:40 PM | Comments (0)
March 23, 2005
Data loss.
How do we feel when we lose information saved to an electronic device?
Whether we know it or not, I believe many of us experience grief.
I just returned from my local Sprint Store to have my Treo 600 serviced. I tried looking up a number from my call log this ayem, and the machine went batty, intermittently flashing me the Palm logo.
In the store, the helpful fellow behind the counter told me that they might need to do a hard reset. I told him he should do so only as a last resort. I knew that when I returned from my errands, my device would be as blank as the day it left the factory.
Serves me right for not backing up my data.
So, the many photos, creative notes, contacts, SMS chat threads, Web bookmarks and custom shortcuts that I've cultivated for the last 18 months are gone, gone, gone.
I invested a great deal of time customizing this device, and now, it's like having a stranger in my pocket.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 04:33 PM | Comments (0)
March 21, 2005
Nag Champa.
Before guests arrive, I ofttimes light a stick of incense.
I find it soothes away some of the stress one associates with being a proper host and nicely masks any telltale litter box odor.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 10:50 PM | Comments (0)
March 17, 2005
The raconteur in me acknowledges the tourist in you.
I saw a job on Craigslist this week that seemed spot-on for a fellow like myself. The official description is right here.
I mentioned it in passing to L on Tuesday, thinking that I'd get around to it after some rewrites of the screenplay.
"Why not do it today?" she asked. I couldn't think of a reason not to, so I put my behind in the car and drove to the GGB.
You can read what I came up with after the jump. I don't know if I'll get the gig, but it was an excellent exercise, and I'd like to thank L for her tireless support. Shoehorning an experience into 350 words ain't easy.
The Golden Gate Bridge
Take the ramp from the visitor’s lot up to the grove near the flagpole.
HOST:
Welcome to the Golden Gate Bridge. You're overlooking Fort Point, the bridge and the Marin Headlands.
NARRATOR:
Each second, this narrow strait funnels 17 million gallons of the Pacific into San Francisco Bay. Roiling currents and shark populations have kept people out of the frigid water -- except stir-crazy inmates of Alcatraz, to your right.
Early last century, this was "the bridge that couldn't be built." Many believed high wind, saboteurs or earthquake would bring it down, obstructing this ideal harbor. Nature lovers feared a span would mar the landscape. Ferry companies simply hated the idea.
In 1923, local columnist Annie Laurie skewered nay-sayers:
ACTOR:
What, bridge the Golden Gate! Throw a net-work of wire and steel across the entrance to the most magnificent harbor in the world?
Spoil our sunsets -- kill all the romance and beauty and mystery of the Gate loved round the world just for the sake of getting us in and out of Marin County?
Oh, the blasphemy of it! The desecration! The sacrilege!
NARRATOR:
Bridging the gap required innovative engineering, political maneuvering, and deep pockets. Work began in January 1933, and as the Great Depression cut a swath across America, workers literally fought each other for the chance to labor on this project.
On May 27, 1937, foghorns announced the opening. 200,000 traversed on foot – and on skates and stilts. The bridge opened to vehicles the next day and is now crossed about 40 million times each year.
An art deco icon, the bridge is one of the most recognized structures on Earth. The towers taper to accentuate their height, and their vertical fluting was designed to catch the light, creating dramatic, fluid shadows. The custom color -- International Orange -- was created to suit the natural palette and stand out in fog.
Today, bridge views mean real estate dollars and “I was there!” snapshots. Protestors flock here for exposure, and engineers marvel still at its elegant durability. Even ferry operators made their peace.
This bridge connects San Francisco to the world. This bridge is the soul of a city.
/end
Posted by Your Protagonist at 11:04 PM | Comments (0)
March 13, 2005
An Open Letter to Wil Wheaton
Dear Wil,
My GF's big brain thrills and amazes me. She solves everyday and mundane mysteries with elan.
Perseverence is one of her most impressive traits. I've never seen her leave something undone. If she's vexed or perplexed, she becomes that much more motivated to to banish all doubt and find the answer.
And so, this particular blog entry is dedicated to you, an actor-cum-nerd-cum-actor who's using the Internet to show the world that you contain multitudes besides Ensign Wesley Crusher.
Wil, I'm glad you've been able to freely express aspects of your personality, find your voice and stay in touch with your fan base. I'm even happy about your recent guest spot on CSI; I'll have to torrent that tonight.
So, Wil, consider this a personal plea; please return L's brain.
Since she discovered your recent crypto challenge, I only hear grunts and sighs, or extended musings about Enigma ciphers and the true extent of your math skills.
"In this 2001 Slashdot interview, he admits that he's no mathlete. And look at his SAT scores! I mean, he couldn't get his Linux install to run on a Windows box despite several attempts, so I know this cipher can't be all that!"
Wil, I don't hate you. I'm not as huge a ST:TNG fan as others, but I always appreciated Wesley, even though he seemed sorta square. Hey, an overprotective mom and an absent dad can mess anyone up, so I never held it against the character.
L seems certain that she's broken one of the two keys, and it was a hard sell to get her to leave the house this afternoon for a movie date with friends. I congratulate you on your ability to feed the hype with hints and encouragement, and I'm sure you're loving the attention.
All I'm saying is, you've got nothing to prove.
You're a very intelligent man, and we all accept that. Now, let me have my GF's brain back, or I'll devote this blog to chronicling your star turns in films like "Hambone and Hillie," and speculating on why they left your ass on the cutting-room floor in "The Last Starfighter."
Posted by Your Protagonist at 09:32 PM | Comments (0)
Registered my script, and a 5-second movie review.
Using their handy online option, I just registered my second screenplay with the Writer's Guild of America.
I completed the fourth draft just now. After proofing it once more, I'll print it for L's comments, and start thinking about representation.
It's unlikely that anything will ever come of it, but I must try.
Incidentally, L and I saw a matinee of "Constantine" this afternoon. We sat through the end credits, as is our custom.
After the coda with the main characters, L brightly said:
"Oh, I get it: every time someone quits smoking, an angel gets his wings!"
Posted by Your Protagonist at 09:31 PM | Comments (0)
March 12, 2005
Ungrateful heart.
We were having a perfectly splendid morning until I discovered that my cat pried out the window screen over the sink.
Funny how your whole mood can turn on a dime. My cat runs away, and suddenly I'm ten years old. Scared, sad, heartbroken.
I pulled on street clothes and grabbed a can of Dick Van Patten's Natural Balance cat food, Ocean Fish formula. The aroma is almost as appealing as Episode 106 of "Eight is Enough," but the cats like it.
These animals are famous for pleasing themselves first, and they seldom come when called. Also, there's a kajillion places to run to, such as the overgrown garden next door, or the giant pine tree that casts a shade over each adjoining house.
I did a circuit around the block, deciding not to ask the guy at the convenience store if he'd seen a gray cat scoot past. I see that man everyday, and I was afraid that if my voice broke, he'd smirk at me each time thereafter when I walked in for an avocado or some half-and-half.
A barefoot woman in her forties sat on her front steps, working on a clipboard while a giant yellow Lab slept at her feet. "Sorry, no. I would have noticed because this one would have chased her up the street." The Lab thumped his tail, as if to say, "damn skippy."
Twenty minutes to circle the block. When I came back, L said "she's probably as freaked as you are." Polly is an indoor cat, but since moving to our bucolic street, she developed a strong interest in what goes on outside. She's even tried to juke past me and out the front door when I get home with groceries.
L went to speak to the tenant downstairs, who'd just heard her cat make the "there's another animal out here" noise a few minutes before we discovered that Polly was running The Longest Yard. A moment later, a little gray blur bounced past L and into the electrical panel behind the recycling bins.
"I think I found her! Or, she found herself," L called up the back stairs. I arrived in the tiny side alley and was able to coax Polly out of the crawlspace without bribery or coercion.
The whole time she was missing, I kept thinking back to the day at the SPCA when I was signing the adoption papers:
"Why are you even getting a cat? What if she gets sick and dies? What if she gets lost? How sad are those weatherbeaten 'have you seen me?' posters? Do you want that to be you?"
As I recall, I decided that it was worth all of that if I could come home to an animated entity that was glad to see me. L more than exceeds those requirements (!), but Polly's not entirely obsolete.
The movie in my head went something like this:
EXT. RESIDENTIAL STREET - DAY
YOUR PROTAGONIST, a black man in his mid-thirties, walks slowly down a quiet, tree-lined street, stopping now and then to peer under parked cars. A slim WOMAN wearing sweats and holding a yoga mat walks past looking askance. He appears not to notice.
Here, girl! Psst, psst, psst! Polly! C'mere, sweetie!
He straightens up and walks further down the block, scanning bushes and trees for signs of life. "Core n'grato," as sung by Dominic Chianese, gradually fills the soundtrack.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 08:21 PM | Comments (0)
March 08, 2005
Take care, TCB.
Personal responsibility was on my mind today.
What does it mean, and how does one seize it? I asked several people what the concept meant to them, and I'd like to thank each of them for their answers -- even if I'm more confused now than before I asked.
Taking responsibility can mean anything from refusing to procrastinate to striving for self-sufficiency. One person told me that personal responsibility signified a willingness to follow through, even when the onus is on someone else to do so.
"If you don't take care of it, how do you know it'll get done?" was the fine point of his statement.
Like any politically charged phrase, "personal responsibility" means everything, and nothing. It's a cudgel used to bash the poor and a rallying cry for groups or individuals with a modicum of independence -- college freshmen and Palestinians, say.
For one acquaintance, personal responsibility meant that she worked briefly as a prostitute to support herself and a young child. For another, TCB meant learning how to pole-dance; financial aid just wasn't cutting it, and she wanted her damned degree.
I'll take these women at their word when they aver that these respective jobs were their last, best options for doing what needed to be done. One study indicates that 60% of all Americans will spend 1 year of their lives in poverty, and there are hard choices to be made.
I've never knocked over a convenience store, bilked investors out of their savings, or sat at home collecting government assistance while watching daytime TV. I seek to avoid asking others for help I don't really need, and I don't much like passing the buck.
And yet, I'm unsatisfied that I've taken enough personal responsibility in my life. I'm suddenly, keenly aware that there's more to be done, much more.
So, I'm making a concerted effort to be more of an agent on my own behalf. We'll see how it works out. History indicates that people who make sweeping public pronouncements about how they're going to change their lives are rarely rewarded for their chest-pounding.
As they say in the IT world, "let's take this offline.". Either I'll be better, or I won't. But I'm going to give it a good shot. I did some walking around town today and saw too many people whose lives were playing out without their active participation.
From now on, if you want to fuck with me, you'll first have to obtain my express written consent.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 10:37 PM | Comments (0)
March 07, 2005
Handyman.
I installed this doorknob yesterday:
I'd like to thank the good people at Schlage and Black & Decker for helping to make this all possible.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 01:16 PM | Comments (0)
March 06, 2005
Italianate Victorian.
The lack of chatter on this frequency can be chalked up to a confluence of circumstances; a move at the end of the foreshortened month of February, and the subsequent failure of my hard drive, which contained pretty much all of my creative output, such as it was, for the last two months.
An inauspicious start to transitioning to a new home, an enterprise that comes with specific and vague sets of timelines and worries: packing, moving, unpacking, measuring, purchasing items from big-box stores, removing splinters, cleaning up after the handyman and his crew, assimilating two cats, etc. I've gotten particularly good at playing "Concentration" with our belongings:
"Which box has my Firefly DVDs?""Under the coffee table, behind the box of A/V cables -- no, that box has my tax stuff, my senior yearbook and the cat's adoption papers."
As it turned out, the stress was manageable, and good company made the shopping excursions into bonding moments. In one evening, we went to Office Depot to get moving boxes before skipping down the freeway to Home Depot, where we picked up hardware and software for our new digs. We dropped the housewares of at the new address, then returned to my place so we could pack up our stuff.
I keep calling it our new home, but it was built in 1885. The style is Italianate Victorian, and it seems to be holding up pretty well. Redwood frame, brick foundation. Solid, baby.
The building's vintage keeps occurring to me, usually when I'm doing something like tuning the waterproof radio in our shower, or adding a new Law & Order spinoff to the TiVo lineup. Then again, some dead people probably sat in this very living room, marveling at their shiny new Victrola or DuMont. I guess I shouldn't be so taken with myself.
OK, I'll poke a little fun at my Noe Valley forebears; our Vornado arrived this afternoon. No more chilly-ass nights, although there are worse fates than huddling for warmth. This building is so old, it still has a door downstairs for where coal might have been delivered.
This building is so old, it was built the same year that heralded the publication of Huckleberry Finn, the first appendectomy, the arrival of the Statue of Liberty in New York Harbor, and the dedication of the Washington Monument. It's old, and I think that's cool.
Records indicate that the property was subdivided from a larger lot. I was soaking in the extra-long bathtub the other night, speculating on how that might have occurred. Maybe someone lost it in a bridge game, The larger lot, which probably contained a gorgeous Victorian mansion, was razed a few decades back to create an apartment building.
So, we're settling in. We learned the hard way the other night that we can't use the oven. The cats are giving each other a respectful distance, avoiding conflict. I've learned to time my showers so I no longer run out of hot water, and I've peeped out the closest laundromats and Indian restaurants. It's good here.
And thanks to the intrepid efforts of stalwart L, I was able to swap in a replacement drive for this laptop-- and she was able to recover my once-fried data after expending a great deal of time and effort.
As soon as is feasible, I'm going to pay someone to cut a hole in the kitchen ceiling and put in a skylight over the sink and stove. I'd like to improve this place. Never felt that way before. Maybe this is home.
Posted by Your Protagonist at 05:11 AM | Comments (0)