Some things I think about these days

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Fall has always been something of a reset button for me; when I move it’s almost always in the Fall, and it’s almost always a major move. This Fall is not so much different than Falls past. I’m moving, and, while it’s not major in the geographic sense, it’s still a pretty big deal. 

The house that I’ve been living in since May, while a little on the dingy side, has been pretty okay. Decent rent, decent housemates, decent location. Then August happened. Aside from a lot of stupid personal things that should not be committed to record on the internet, things went decidedly and rapidly downhill. 

First and foremost, our 76 year old landlord, a misogynistic lecherous gay “bio energy healer” came for a “visit”, during which he planned to stay on a moldering futon in our unfinished basement. Okay, not the best situation, but what can you do about it? Nothing. 

Then the visit was stated to be “6-8 weeks”. Then he began to plan major construction projects. Then he promised and reneged on a rent reduction. Then he elected to explore putting the house on the market. Then, following a contentious discussion of all of his arbitrary and contradictory statements, he notified me via email that I had 30 days notice to vacate. Then he refused to address why, giving no reason and refusing to elaborate on his decision. Then he notified the rest of the housemates that he would be resuming occupancy in the house by way of taking the now vacant bedroom. Then everything became crystal clear. Then everyone else elected to move out.

So now here I am. Looking for my first big boy apartment in 3 years, and kind of freaking out about what I’m going to do in several general and specific senses. What am I going to do? Not a fucking clue. There are some really cool opportunities that are opening themselves up currently, but it’s hard to focus on them what with the general awfulness of everything else. 

In the meantime, there is a crazy old person living in our house who can’t seem to do anything but move things around and futz with the air conditioner settings and complain about things. Which, really, when you think about old people, seems about par for the course. 

In truth, when I’m able to access the now semi alien rational part of my brain, I’m well aware that this is an opportunity. Every shitty thing that hits you in the face presents an opportunity, and it comes down to how you choose to approach it. Hopefully in the coming days, weeks and months I’ll find it in myself to approach things properly and come out all right on the other side. 

Or I may end up a nomad, living in an unfinished RV with two cats and moving regularly, as street sweeping schedules dictate. There’s always that. 

post script: it’s also my birthday in a few weeks, so a job and an apartment would be a great gift. eh, universe? what says you?

changes

fall

anxiety

life

housing

hateful old men

opportunities

house hunters

Looking for an apartment is always a depressing proposition. Sure, sometimes the right place falls into your lap with little effort, but the reality is that it tends to be a matter of settling for less and less as you bring your expectations into step with reality. 

For instance, what I want is a Spanish/Mediterranean style courtyard building with large leaded glass windows, good light, hardwoods, a decent kitchen, dining area, decent bathroom, is okay with cats, has a little space to garden, and is located in an area that is walkable/hip/close to at least one decent grocery store, and preferably not somewhere that I might get mugged or gay bashed.

The reality is that for what we can “afford” (that concept is so relative that I refuse to even touch it right now) I’m going to be lucky to find something that wasn’t a recent crime scene. I’m also embracing the likelihood that I will maybe possibly have to join a gang, so I’m hoping that it’s at least a bilingual gang, because my Spanish is not the best. Also, it’s possible that the cats may have to be shaved, put into little outfits and passed off as children. 

Los Angeles is an almost comically expensive place to live, where the cost of rent is fairly disproportionate to quality of living. For instance, I am going to go look at a 500sf apartment in a moderately questionable area that is available for the bargain price of $900. No laundry, no parking, not a great neighborhood. $900. And it really does feel like a bargain. In fact, it’s likely that we’ll take it. We’ll take it, we’ll pay it, and we’ll say thank you. 

There are deals out there in this great city, and I have numerous friends who’ve come across them, but I have yet to see them. No, I seem to have a knack for finding ridiculously and arbitrarily expensive apartments. $1825 for a two bedroom apartment on not a great street with no real amenities, and only one window ac unit? Don’t mind if I do! 

In any event, everything’s going to shake out however it’s meant to in the next 30 days, and this will all be a distant memory of simpler times and simpler stresses. However, for now, for the time being, I’m going to walk to Walgreens and buy some Pepcid to go with my coffee. Or possibly just go back to bed and pull the covers over my head, because that’s the best way that I can think to deal with things lately. 

life

moving

priorities

grown up things

gross

apartments

expensive

los angeles

joining a gang

On writing, desperation and failure

I am a Writer.

However, while I’ve completed a handful of scripts - primarily television, some original, some spec - nothing has been produced. Therefore, stating “I am a Writer” strikes me as little more than an affectation. That’s the paradox in writing, you see, especially writing in a visual format; if nothing’s done with it, if all it does is pad a “portfolio” that no one asks to see, does it count for anything?

No, sadly, by my estimation, it does not (though perhaps that’s just a problem with my own thinking). Is it enough to create “art” (the word alone makes me cringe more than a bit) if there is no audience? Is it more appropriate to amend my statement of purpose to “I write”?

If you’re a hobbyist, say an amateur painter, it’s easy to qualify things and say “I paint”, and not “I am a Painter”. De Kooning was a Painter. My grandfather painted. By such logic, I write, while Allen Ball (alternately, feel free to substitute the name of any writer that impresses you) is a Writer. 

That said, it’s a process, crawling up the heap from “I write” to “I am a Writer”, and I’m invested in making as much progress as I can. Last year was decent; I submitted a spec for The United States of Tara to the WB workshop and ranked in the top 5% of submissions.* This year, not so great - I submitted a spec for Nurse Jackie and received my notice that I didn’t qualify even the the extent that I had the year prior. As an added bonus, the letter was received 09/03, and dated 09/16… So yay. At least I didn’t have to wait? 

Admittedly, in retrospect, it wasn’t my best work, which was something that I came to terms with after I submitted. I rewrote the same script and submitted it to the NBC Writers on the Verge program, and I should be hearing back from that by the 16th. (While I was much more optimistic about that program, we are at the beginning of the interview process, and my phone has yet to ring. This is likely not a good omen.)

With all of these thoughts running around in my head (and to clarify, by thoughts I reference, really, a mounting sense of failure) I read an article written in the WSJ by Harlan Coben that I found particularly inspiring. Read it, by all means, but what struck me in a rueful sense was this: But the third and most surprising thing you need to be a writer is desperation – pure, naked panic-inducing desperation.  If I didn’t write, what would I do with myself? How would I make a living and feed my family? Am I any good? Was I good before and now I’ve lost it?

Desperation? Yeah, I’ve got it in spades. The reality however? The reality is that, after as long as I’ve been on this earth, the one skill that I feel that I have, the one thing that I feel like I can do, the one thing I want to do, is to write. No, no, allow me to correct myself. The one thing I want to do, and believe that I can do is to be a Writer. 

My eggs are all completely nestled in one shoddily woven basket, and, at this point, I don’t feel like there’s a goddamn thing that I can do about moving them, not even a couple. Those eggs are where they are, and that’s where they’re going to have to stay. The bed is made, the metaphors are mixed, and it must be lied in, while they must be endured.

So. What am I going to do? What else can I do? Keep working. Work harder. Get better. 

So, get on with it, okay? 

*last year, there was a girl in the WB seminar that was hosted for the top 5%; she mentioned that she had qualified at the same level 2 years in a row. In my hubris, I wondered how much that must suck, to move only laterally in the span of 2 years. For the record, that is annoying. This? This “sucks”.

crisis

desperation

damn girl for real

harlan coben

better luck next time

warner bros

nbc

life

career

the dog made me think too much today

The dog is unhappy inside. The dog is unhappy outside. For a creature that is supposed to be unflinchingly happy by nature, the dog is failing on all counts. To the dog I say “join the club.” The dog, I imagine, is a metaphor - a walking whining metaphor - about how life feels these days. 

Everything these days, it seems, is a matter of “stay or go”; maintain the status quo and feel the tidal tug of stasis, or upset the apple cart and burn it all to the ground. To be honest, neither seems particularly pleasant to me. I’m hunting for a third option, an option that embraces the possibility of a magical retooling that props up what’s working and mends what’s broken with a minimum of tears or raised voices. (Lately there’ve been a great number of raised voices, though surprisingly [alarmingly?] no tears.)

Everything these days is looming on the horizon. (And boy, let me tell you, I really do mean everything.) Home, “relationship” (those that know me know that those quotation marks are well deserved) and career (oh boy, oh boy, “career” - another well deserved use of quotations). It’s all just over the hill with endless resolutions set up like some sort of Rube Goldberg device. One piece needs to fall to set everything in motion, but waiting for that first marble to roll… Man, it’s a bitch. 

So here I am. It is 4:45 on a Tuesday afternoon and I’ve poured a cocktail, put on the new Beyoncé (which is really, really stellar by the way) and I’m writing navel gazing nonsense on the internet because it’s easier than writing the creative shit that I’m supposed to be working on. (Which is also probably pretty much nonsense, but what the fuck ever, you know?)

But wait! I alluded to a metaphor, what with the dog and all… Some, some may say that the metaphor is that the grass is always greener, that it’s best to be happy with the hand that you’re given, make the best and etc. In truth, however, I feel like it’s a pretty safe bet to say that it all boils down to “damned if you do, damned if you don’t.” Outside is hot and lonely. Inside is boring and claustrophobic. So. What are you gonna do about it?*

*alternately, what am I going to do about it? no, really, someone tell me. i’m just flummoxed. 

life

damn girl for real

home life

jobs

lack of jobs

relationships

sysyphus

rube goldberg

oh look it's getting dark earlier these days

Lately…

I’m pretty much losing every ounce of patience that I’ve had with everything and everyone in my life. I’ve adopted the pretension of being a fervent follower of astrology so that I can blame it all on Mercury in retrograde, but that’s over tomorrow, so I’m not really sure who or what is to blame when that passes. (Though I’ve a sneaking suspicion that the answer is “myself”.)

In any event, it’s all going to come out in the wash, or it’s not, and there’s not really a goddamn thing that I can do about much of anything these days. Of course, this isn’t entirely true, but it’s the attitude that I choose to adopt as of this moment. I like it. While it doesn’t entirely absolve me of responsibility, it allows me to cultivate something of a laissez faire attitude about things until it all comes crashing down around me. 

Until then, I say “let it burn”. Anyone got a match?

life

really again?

old people

young people

too tiresome to be a crisis