Anathem by Neal Stephenson

After many, many, many (way too many...) months, I finally finished Neal Stephenson's latest tome. All 960 pages of it. And I have to say, this was probably my least favorite Neal Stephenson book.

My favorite is still probably Snow Crash. I really was jazzed about Stephenson's five minutes into the future style. Imagining a Los Angeles where housing is in such short supply that people live in public storage units? Heck, before the housing market crashed at the end of last year, that was a total possibility. I also loved the interminable Baroque Cycle in which Stephenson stepped away from the near future and went back to the past.

Given that we are now living in a world of DVRs, product placement, Twitter and the iPhone, science fiction is hard pressed to impress us these days. In an interview with William Gibson, Rolling Stone asked, "You made your name as a science-fiction writer, but in your last two novels you've moved squarely into the present. Have you lost interest in the future?" to which Gibson replied:

"It has to do with the nature of the present. If one had gone to talk to a publisher in 1977 with a scenario for a science-fiction novel that was in effect the scenario for the year 2007, nobody would buy anything like it. It's too complex, with too many huge sci-fi tropes: global warming; the lethal, sexually transmitted immune-system disease; the United States, attacked by crazy terrorists, invading the wrong country. Any one of these would have been more than adequate for a science-fiction novel. But if you suggested doing them all and presenting that as an imaginary future, they'd not only show you the door, they'd probably call security."

No wonder Stephenson moved to the 1800s for inspiration! In Anathem, he bucks sci-fi and our brave new world by creating a whole new world and planet named "Arbre." Unfettered by Earthly realities--and much like J. J. Abrams copped out with the recent Star Trek reboot--Stephenson is free to create a universe of his own imaginings. Arbre is similar to Earth: cars (known as "mobes"), SUVs and trucks (known as "fetches"), smartphones (jeejahs) and the internet (aka "reticulum") all exist on the planet--along with scientific and philosophical theories that will be familiar to many students. Hey, it's not like Newton was the only one in the entire universe to have an apple fall on his head!

Speaking of science and philosophy: the cool thing about Arbe is the segregated of its "thinkers" from the general population. Children (aka "fids") are collected around their tenth birthday and are educated in concents living a monastic lifestyle dedicated to the pursuit of knowledge. Aha! It's Earth turned inside out with science being the new religion.

Except it isn't: Arbre has religious monasteries as well.

Between the alien cosmic neologisms and trying to find the parallels between the fictional Arbre and Earth, it was tough going for me. Add to that lengthy passages of scientific and philosophical theories and--well, let's just say there was a whole lotta skimming going on. To be honest, sneaking time to read has been difficult and there were days where I would eke out progress a sentence or two at a time.

But the real problem with Anathem was the lack of an intriguing protagonist. Eramus, the narrator of the tale, is a fairly passive character. He's certainly no Jack "The Gypsy King" Shaftoe nor is he any kind of Hiro Protagonist. Stephenson introduces us to a plethora of characters in the book, but the entire story--unlike the character jumps in The Baroque Cycle--is told from Eramus' perspective. Too bad he's such a bland and lifeless character...

Even more distressing is the lack of strong female characters in the book. Nothing like his Eliza, Y.T. or Juanita at all. Although Arbre is presented as a pretty equal society, the female characters are pretty much lacking.

And Anathem suffers from what I like to call the "Star Trek intergalactic anomaly"--which is that on all planets other than Earth, people look the same and speak the same language all over the whole planet. Sure Star Trek has Klingons and Romulans like Anathem has Arbrans, LaTerrans, etc.--but have you ever seen an episode of Star Trek where two Klingons meet up and can't understand what the other is saying because one is a "French" Klingon while the other is a "Chinese" Klingon?

Never happens!

On Arbre, people generally speak "Fluccish," although those in the concents speak "Orth," which I suppose is sort of like Latin.

The most irritating thing about this book was the lack of urgency. After the initial setting up the new world and its parameters, we find out that Arbre is being orbited by aliens. And that those aliens are fairly hostile. So what do the people of Arbre do? They pull all the best minds from within the concents, religious orders and general population and have a CONVENTION (aka "convox"). Meetings and meeting of discussions. If those discussion centered around, "What are we going to do about the hostile aliens?" it might make a bit more sense. But no, the topics of discussion explore space and time and reality. All while there are HOSTILE ALIENS orbiting the planet!!!

I mean, where is Will Smith when you need him?

If Anathem were a script, it would definitely suffer from one of the basic rules of storytelling--"Show, don't tell." Anathem spends a lot of time setting the scene--which is forgivable--and way too much time exploring theories and concepts which go nowhere. There are some great and exciting sequences in the book. Unfortunately when you're slogging through 960 pages, they are few and far between.

Although Stephenson takes a few jabs at our society via the sister planet of Arbre, what with spin and marketing and much ado about nothing being labeled "bullshytt," (there was no need to flip to the glossary to translate THAT term!), I failed to comprehend just what he was trying to convey with this novel. Science fiction, after all, usually provides an incisive and insightful look at our own state of affairs. Even the concept of parallel and multiple narratives or time tracks might have made for an interesting exploration. But even that theory gets swept away as quickly as it was introduced.

I wonder if cutting out 300 pages or so would have made a difference...With the elimination of some of the lofty erudition, Anathem would make one heck of a sci-fi story.

Maybe with Shia LeBoeuf as Eramus...

The Fall Guy

Although this script could use some work, I think the opening works brilliantly. It opens with action, sets up the story to follow and pretty much clues the audience in to what the movie is about in just a little over two pages:

EXT. HAIGHT STREET - EVENING

A YOUNG COUPLE, late 20s, exits a club. ALLEN, unassuming
CPA type, and KATEY, attractive in a smart way. Music and
laughter seep out into the night.

There is an awkwardness between them. He attempts an upbeat
air, wondering if he should reach for her hand. Her arms
pull her wrap tightly around her shoulders indicating this
is not a good idea.

ALLEN
So, what did you think? Pretty hip
and happening place, huh?

She nods her head without enthusiasm.

ALLEN (CONT'D)
How 'bout next time we hit the
Paradise Lounge?

She stops, standing in front of an alley. He stops and walks
back to her. She takes a deep breath.

KATEY
Look, Allen--you're a really nice
guy, but--

A DARK FIGURE leaps out from the alley. Dressed in black,
from ski mask pulled over the face to the canvas high top
sneakers, he strikes a menacing pose.

Katey gives a little scream. Allen moves protectively towards her.

MUGGER
Give me your money and no-one gets
hurt.

Katey cowers next to Allen. She holds out her purse.

Allen steps in front of her and stands tall.

ALLEN
Listen asshole--if you want my money,
you're gonna have to take it from me!

The mugger moves forward and throws a punch.

Allen neatly deflects it. He throws a series of quick
jabs--solar plexus, face and then a solid jab to the chest
that lays the mugger flat out on the ground.

Allen turns to check on a stunned Katey.

ALLEN (CONT'D)
Are you okay?

Katey nods in a daze. Allen puts his arm around her and
leads her past the incapacitated mugger. They turn the corner
and walk into a parking lot.

Allen presses the autolock button on his key ring and unlocks
his waiting red Audi. He opens the door for Katey and helps
her into the car. As he goes to shut the door, he notices
his bare wrist.

ALLEN (CONT'D)
Damn, my watch must have slipped off
while I was beating up that mugger.
(to Katey)
You wait here--keep the doors locked.
I'll be right back.

KATEY
You can't go back there--forget about
the watch! I'll buy you a new one.

ALLEN
No, I have to get it. It was a
graduation gift from my grandfather.
It's...sentimental value.

KATEY
Please--be careful!
Allen nods his head grimly and shuts her door. He presses
the autolock and strides back to the alley.

EXT. ALLEY - MOMENTS LATER
BOBBY has removed the ski mask removed revealing an unruly
mop of dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. He is sitting
up, stretching his neck with a hand on his chin.

A SHADOW falls across his face. He looks up and sees Allen
looming in the alley opening.

Allen reaches into his coat, pulls out his wallet and takes
out a hundred dollar bill. He hands it to Bobby.

ALLEN
Thanks, man!

Bobby takes the bill and gives him a salute.

Allen puts his wallet back into his coat and pulls out his
watch. He fastens it onto his wrist and, giddy, almost skips
back to his car.

Grace Under Pressure

They say men work
from sun to sun
but a woman's work
is never done
I seem to get
less than I give
but it still beats
the alternative
And I don't know
why men lie
I guess that's why
women cry...
You think by now
I'd know better
to stay or go
grace under pressure

I want to be
in control
and sometimes I want
to be controlled
And I don't know
how you intend
to determine
which and when
And I don't know
why men don't cry
they always have
an alibi
You think by now
I'd learn my lesson
to stay or go
grace under pressure

Seems to be too late
before I realize
Halfway's too far away
and so we reach no compromise

Like Diogenes I am
searching for an honest man
The effort seems to be
an exercise in futility
And I don't know
why men lie
I guess that's why
women cry
You think by now
I'd know better
to stay or go
grace under pressure...

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

I was inspired to read this because of Elisabeth (Damn, that girl reads a lot of BOOKS!) and also because it was mentioned as a possibility for the now defunct (although I still get the automated e-mails!) book club. We read Wigfield: The Can-Do Town That Just May Not which was co-written by Sedaris' sister Amy--along with Paul Dinello and Stephen Colbert.

Me Talk Pretty is a series of essays about Sedaris' life and family. Split into two parts, the first recounts his childhood and family life while the second focuses mainly on his life in France with boyfriend Hugh and his less-than-stellar command of the French language. Most of the vignettes are humorous--some downright "snort milk out your nose" hysterical--although some worked better than others.

I tended to prefer the material in the first half of the book. Opening with a memory of speech therapy class in the fifth grade, Sedaris manages to convey the worldview of being a young boy (I could almost picture Ralphie from A Christmas Story as a young Sedaris) with the world-weary wisdom of his future self. The funniest part of his story is about his attempts to avoid using words with the "s" sound and thereby avoid future speech therapy classes:

"At school, where every teacher is a potential spy, I tried to avoid an s sound whenever possible. "Yes," became "correct," or a military "affirmative." "Please," became "with your kind permission," and questions were pleaded rather than asked. After a few weeks of what she called "endless pestering" and what I called "repeated badgering," my mother bought me a pocket thesaurus, which provided me with s-free alternative to just about everything."

This tactic leads to a sort of cat-and-mouse showdown with his speech therapy teacher:

"So," she said, "what are your plans for the holidays?"
"Well, I usually remain here and, you know, open a gift from my family."
"Only one?" she asked.
"Maybe eight or ten."
"Never six or seven?"
"Rarely," I said.
"And what do you do on December thirty-first, New Year's Eve?"
"On the final day of the year we take down the pine tree in our living room and eat marine life."

"Eat marine life." Oh, that cracked me up! But just when young David thinks he has outfoxed her:

"What can I say? As a speech teacher, I'm a complete failure."
She moved her hands toward her face, and I worried that she might start to cry. "Hey, look," I said. "I'm thorry."
"Ha-ha," she said. "I got you." She laughed much more than she needed to and was still at it when she signed the form recommending me for the following year's speech therapy program. "Thorry indeed. You've got some work ahead of you, mister."
I related the story to my mother, who got a huge kick out of it. "You've got to admit that you really are a sucker," she said.

I agreed but, because none of my speech classes ever made a difference, I still prefer to use the word chump.

I especially like his stories about his family: "The Youth in Asia" which recounted the numerous family pets with Sedaris opining: "Eulogies tended to be brief, our motto being Another day, another collar." Or "You Can't Kill the Rooster" about his brother Paul or "A Shiner Like a Diamond" about sister Amy. Makes me think I should be delving into my own family remembrances for material. Like my sister Laurie, who when very young used to hide uneaten sandwiches in the basement, then went on to subsist on a diet of TAB and giant Sweet-tarts for many years and now is an unabashed foodie.

Or David, who was the baby of the family and whose hero was Mr. Rogers when he was little. If we wanted to make David cry, we would just taunt him by saying, "Mr. Rogers is a NERD!" To which he would respond totally distraught, "No he is NOT!!!" Ah--good times, good times! James was our own personal "Rooster"--although he was dubbed with the unwanted nickname "Turkey" by friends. He just turned it into "Turk" or "The Turk."

James holds the family record for most accident-prone. He had to have his stomach pumped several times because of his tendency to eat or drink just about anything, put a hole in his foot when he got it caught under the wheel of a wagon attached to a mini-bike and had to have his front teeth stitched back in when he tripped in a movie theater and hit his mouth on the back of one of the seats.

Yeah, I can definitely relate to David Sedaris' musings about his family. And we're both fans of One Life to Live to boot!

A Year in Van Nuys by Sandra Tsing Loh

According to my blogging buddy Elisabeth, celebrator of holidays big and small (especially small!), today is Read a Book Day. How fitting that I should post about my latest read today. (Okay, it's not exactly serendipitous timing! I actually finished the book a couple of days ago, but waited until today so as to coincide with Read a Book Day. Sue me!)

Sandra Tsing Loh is writer/performer/humorist/commentator who specializes in observational and self-deprecating humor. Half Chinese, half German, she reminded me a bit of Margaret Cho or perhaps more accurately, Margaret Cho Lite--but I say that with all due respect. Not just because of the Asian descent, but both are self-deprecating (with a tinge of self-loathing) concerned with body image and family dynamics.

Loh, however, is a bit more accessible--and a bit less scatological.I love Margaret Cho, but she's definitely not a mainstream act. Perhaps you have really cool parents that you could take to Cho concert or film and they'd be laughing uproariously right along side you. The thought of either of MY parents watching Margaret Cho with me makes me squeamish.

But enough about Margaret Cho, this is about Sandra Tsing Loh--who I could definitely see watching or listening to with my parents. This isn't to say Loh is some kind of bland, banal comic presence--but instead a sharply witty everywoman. Her book A Year in Van Nuys (the title a satirical reference to Peter Mayle's A Year in Provence--Van Nuys being so NOT Provence!) is a semi-autobiographical recounting of her existential mid-life crisis that starts off with a massive case of writer's block which leads to a session with poetic Malibu therapist, Ruth:

"I see you...." She narrows her eyes, continues to speak as through a dream. "I see you as a toad in a cave, looking out a hole, watching the world outside. But in fact you are looking into a pond, and the hole is a reflection, of something inside...what you think is the cave. Do you follow me?"
...I stare at her slack-jawed.
"Cave paintings," she insists, "Make peace with the cave paintings! Which they aren't really,of course, because it's not truly a cave." She shrugs, waves a turquoise-and-silver hand, dismissive. "It's just wallpaper."

From there, we ride the merry-go-round that is Loh's life--sibling rivalry with her thinner, richer sister Kaitlin, a disastrous short stint writing for a online magazine, the trauma of eye bags, in-law conversational logic and the dreaded family holiday--culminating with her "Scared Straight" guest of honor appearance at friend Jolene's "Right to Write" support group:

I ponder the female marketing executive's situation. The unexplained twenty-year break from writing, the hatred of solitude, the chronic revulsion felt when rereading her own pieces.
"There is another possibility." I hear myself saying.
"Yes?" She and the rest of the group lean in. There is a rustle of Ralph Lauren Leisurewear. Eight pairs of eyes look up at me.
I, the Great Blocked Novelist, give my pronouncement.
"Maybe you're just...not...a writer."
A gasp goes up--particularly from Jolene. She invited me to provide inspiration...

What follows is a scathingly funny rant on writers and writing that ends up unblocking our plucky neurotic heroine.

One would think that after spending Ten Days in the Hills that I would be loathe to spend A Year in Van Nuys, but although Sandra Tsing Loh's prose may not be Pulitzer-worthy in this book, it's an enjoyable read. Loh comes across as that smart, funny friend who can regale everyone with a hysterical story of grocery shopping at WholeFoods and have the whole party in peals of laughter.

Complete with pie charts, comparative tables, bullet-points and swingy hair...

I look forward to hanging out with her reading another one of her books in the future!

Help Wanted

Speaking of Labor Day, it's a bit ironic that on this day we celebrate the American workforce, I am...unemployed. Trying to find a job is a bummer. During the summer, it's a bitch. And trying to find a job in the summer during a recession is a gift from George W. Bush, thank you very much!

It doesn't help that I can't even understand most of the job titles and qualifications I see posted: Ruby on Rails, Sabanes-Oxley, SAP (who in the world would admit to THAT?!!), Lean Leader, Master Black Belt (I don't think they're talking about karate...), LAMP Expert, etc.

Sigh.

Then, wading past the Analysts and Finance Managers and Executive Slave Assistant jobs, I see a Best of Craigslist posting for my dream job. Too bad it's in London:

HENCHMAN NEEDED

20-30 henchmen needed for moderately-sized supervillain organisation with large expansion potential (fortresses built into geological structures, corruption of government officials, possible genesis of 'nemesis' vigilante). Electrical theme.

Applicants must be willing to learn new skills, including but not limited to operation of specialised 'lightning guns'. Applicants will also be required to wear specialised uniform when at work (functional rubber suits with my logo on front), except in cases where deception is required (posing as hostages in order to ambush vigilantes, etc).

Desired (but not necessarily required) in applicants:

-interesting deformations/obsessions/powers(?) giving rise to interesting nicknames (e.g. Claws, Pyro, Buzzsaw, and similar)
-unwavering loyalty
-being a corruptible government official
-ability to work as part of a close-knit team (unless interesting obsession is of the 'lone wolf' variety)
-grudge against any well-known vigilante
-flexible moral code

Equal opportunies employer. Both henchmen and femmes fatales absolutely welcome.

Great promotion opportunities - right-hand-man position constantly being unexpectedly opened. Would look good on any future supervillain resume/CV.

Send an email with details of any prior henchman work, or details of what is driving you to join the ranks of a supervillain organisation. Will reply to all serious applicants. Hope to hear from you, and with luck, welcome you into a rewarding and promising career!

- Jacque (The Zapper) Zerapi

I mean except for the mandatory functional rubber suit with logo on the front, is this a cool opportunity or what? The salary starts at twenty-thousand pounds which is only a little over $36k in USD, but the ad promises "added commissions based around success of supervillain operations." And states "Contracts negotiable depending on applicant's personal skills/powers."

Hmm, I wonder if there's a 401k and dental?

Ten Days in the Hills by Jane Smiley

This novel by Pulitzer-prize winning author Jane Smiley says on the back cover that it's rated "R" for "Ravishing."

More like rated "S" for "snooze-fest."

I vaguely recall reading A Thousand Acres, Smiley's mid-western take on King Lear, but I couldn't remember if I had liked it or not. The jacket synopsis seemed to indicate that it was set in Hollywood, so I prepared myself for a bit of gossipy guilty pleasure. But from page one, it became very obvious to me that I didn't want to spend ten minutes in the Hills with these characters or this story, much less ten days.

One of the characters, a yoga-practicing, vegetarian guru by the name of Paul, sums it up pretty well in the book:

"A certain thing occurred to Paul. It was that he sympathized with Charlie. He thought, "I am wasting my time here." It was as if he had somehow embarked on a cruise, something he had avoided all his life, and suddenly here he was, far out in a sea of languor with a group of people who on land could be avoided, and were therefore fine enough, but here, on this cruise, were insufferable. He sighed. They made him sigh. It was not precisely that they were boring, but more that they caused the expansion of time, so that every second, every moment, swelled to infinity, he himself, in his body and his consciousness, swelled to infinity, and he realized that his long path of exploration, that grand peregrination he had been making for fifty-five years had led to this room, that pointless movie, his old and oblivious antagonist, Max, the view of the eternal Getty Museum dimly white across the hills, the sight of Cassie once again opening her mouth to tell another tale. He groaned and closed his eyes. It was as if he could remember every thought he had ever thought, and every one of them was futile."

Geez--talk about insufferable! Run-on sentences galore and one begins to wonder if Smiley received some kind of monetary bonus each time she used a comma. The book is set in the Pacific Palisades (not in "The Hills" as the title would suggest because "The Hills"--other than being a vapid and insipid MTv fauxility show--refers to the Hollywood Hills in Los Angeles) where a group of ten of the most one dimensional characters hunker down in the luxurious home of Max, fading movie director, to escape the newly instigated Iraqi war. Other than debating the war, eating, watching movies and having strangely unerotic sex, these people do nothing.

The book is written in the third person, but switches focus in a way that makes it difficult to connect with any of the characters. Initially, I thought that with ten people and ten days, Smiley might devote a day to each character's point-of-view. But two of the characters never see the spotlight--and, in fact, are so peripheral it's difficult to figure out why Smiley bothered to include them in the story. After a week of stultifying boredom, Smiley inexplicably transplants her group to an even more lavish setting to spend the last three days. Although we get an influx of new characters, nothing new happens there, either--just long, tedious descriptions of the overly ornate decor and pools and gardens.

We get stories and more stories about people or events, but nothing happens during the ten days. The characters carry on stilted conversations that sound like speeches instead of natural dialogue. They even think in stiff, speech-like thoughts. The movie industry talk sounds like the work of someone who has READ about Hollywood, rather than actually experienced it. Smiley doesn't spend time on the inner lives of her characters either--instead we get painstaking descriptions of the mundane:

"Want a drink?" said Simon, "A beer, maybe? I saw some Negro Modelo in the refrigerator."
Charlie nodded. Simon went to the refrigerator and took out four beers. He kept one for himself, passed one to Max, another to Charlie, and the last to Stoney. They looked good, thought Paul, though he hadn't had a beer in five years. At the sight of them, Zoe got up and went to the refrigerator herself. She brought back two large bottles of Pellegrino and set them, with glasses, on the coffee table.

Aaaarrrggghhhh! Neal Stephenson can digress for pages on the proper consumption of Cap'n Crunch in Cryptonomicon and I'm riveted, but this paragraph by Smiley makes me want to scratch my eyes out. She set two large bottles of Pellegrino WITH glasses on the coffee table? Really?!!! How fascinating! Another example of Smiley's tortured prose:

"She isn't strange. She's ideal." Isabel said this without any self-consciousness, just saying at last what she always felt, but Stoney's head swiveled around and he grinned at her, as if she were joking. She saw that he saw immediately that she was not.

She saw that he saw? Oh my god--I cannot believe I made it through this book. Maybe it should have been rated "E" for "Excruciating" or "G" for "God-awful." Throughout the book, one of the characters refers to the movie, My Dinner with Andre. Fitting actually, since the book is very similar to that movie. Just a lot of blah, blah, blah and yada, yada, yada and not much else.

Mr. Romance

Mel is still talking on the phone, his office door ajar.
Jimmy pushes it open and cautiously sticks his head in. Mel
has his back to him--one hand holding the phone to his ear,
the other rubbing his temple as if on the verge of a migraine.

MEL
(into the phone)
--but I already told you I was sorry!
How can you expect me--
(beat)
Yes, sweetheart. Yes, sweetheart.
I'm sorry. OK. I'll see you--

Mel stops talking and looks at the receiver which is emitting
a DIAL TONE. Beaten, he sighs. He hangs up the phone and
turns to Jimmy.

JIMMY
Bad day?

MEL
I forgot our anniversary.

JIMMY
That's not good.

MEL
Well, it's not exactly easy. We've
got the anniversary of when we first
met, our first date, our first kiss,
the day we moved in together. How
can anyone keep track of all this?

JIMMY
The year Jordan was drafted by the
Bulls?

MEL
What?

JIMMY
What year was Michael Jordan drafted
by the Chicago Bulls?

MEL
1984.

JIMMY
First Bulls NBA championship?

MEL
1991 over the L.A. Lakers.

JIMMY
Last time the Sox won a World Series?

MEL
1917 over the Giants.

JIMMY
Your memory for dates doesn't seem
to be impaired.

MEL
Whose side are you on anyway?

JIMMY
Which anniversary did you forget?

MEL
Uh—-the first time we--you know.

JIMMY
Oh, man--

MEL
Yeah. I don't understand it. For
our first kiss anniversary, I bought
her a dozen roses. And I gave her
an engagement ring for her birthday.
Doesn't that count for anything?

JIMMY
Yeah. You get two points. One for
each. So--I wanted to discuss my
assignments.

MEL
Only two? The engagement ring set
me back almost ten grand. Seems
like that would be worth, I dunno—-
fifteen-hundred points or something.

JIMMY
How long were you guys together before
you proposed?

MEL
Six years.

JIMMY
Yeah. It's worth two points. See
it's like a goal in basketball. It
doesn't matter if it's a gravity
defying slam-dunk, an over the
shoulder flip or an easy lay up-—
it's still worth only two points.
Doesn't matter how pretty it was or
how much effort went into it. Two
points. Now about my assignments--

MEL
But still--I must have racked up
thousands of points over six years.

JIMMY
Yeah but so has she. And you have
to keep racking up the points or
else she'll feel like she's beating
you. You have to keep the score
even.

MEL
What does she get points for?

JIMMY
Making dinner, buying Christmas
presents for your family, picking up
your dry cleaning, having sex with
you--

MEL
She gets points for having sex with
me?

JIMMY
I've seen you without a shirt-—she
gets extra points for having sex
with you.

MEL
Do I get points for having sex with
her?

JIMMY
No.

Jimmy shifts gears.

JIMMY (CONT'D)
So I was thinking I would be good at
covering the Northwestern games...

MEL
So I forgot an anniversary. I lost
one point. So what's the big deal?

JIMMY
Well, now by forgetting you not only
lose the point, you get a penalty.
It's like you're fourth and ten on the
other team's forty yard line
and you get called for holding.
Fifteen yards moves you out of field
goal range. What do you do?

MEL
Punt?

JIMMY
No! There's only ten seconds on the
clock and you're down by two.
Strategy, man!

MEL
So what do I do?

Jimmy sighs and shakes his head. He sits down in a chair
next to Mel's desk and thinks. He straightens up and turns
to Mel.

JIMMY
You get one of her girlfriends to
get her out of the house all day.
Take her shopping or something.
Clean up the house while she's gone.
Hire a cleaning service. Make sure
it's spotless. Then, you make her a
romantic dinner. When she comes
home, the table is set for two with
candles and flowers -- the whole
nine yards. She asks you, "So what's
the occasion?" And you say to her—

Jimmy pauses and leans in.

JIMMY (CONT'D)
This is the anniversary of the day I
fell in love with you all over again.

MEL
That's good!

JIMMY
You pour her a glass of wine, massage
her feet --

MEL
--and then a romantic dinner—-
followed by a little dessert?

JIMMY
If you do this right, you won't make
it to the entree.

Mel considers this. He likes it--it makes sense. Jimmy
sees his opportunity.

JIMMY (CONT'D)
Now that we have that resolved, I
wanted to talk to you about my
assignments.

MEL
Monday. I have a romantic weekend
to organize.

Mel gets up and puts on his coat. Turning to Jimmy as he
rushes out the door,

MEL (CONT'D)
Thanks buddy, I owe you!

Jimmy is left in the empty office.

JIMMY
Yeah, well, I'm glad we had this
little chat!

Letters from Home

And before I know it,
comes and goes another August
and the dreams of spring
lie dying in the dust.
I look in the mirror
with tired eyes.
When did I get older
and still no wiser?

I don't want to rule the world,
just a place to call my own.
I don't need to stand out in a crowd;
I don't want to sleep alone.
I sit here contemplating;
my future's unknown.
I spend my time waiting for
letters from home...

And even if the world
don't know who you are,
you can hold your head high
and pretend you're a star.
And you may say
lies aren't pretty,
but if you can't see me cry,
then I won't feel your pity.

I don't want to rule the world,
just a place to call my own.
I don't need to stand out in a crowd;
I don't want to sleep alone.
I sit here contemplating;
my future's unknown.
I spend my time waiting for
letters from home...

The Tipping Point

EXT. PROSPECT PARK - LATE AFTERNOON

A park bench overlooks the duck pond. Next to it, Billy
sits in his wheelchair--his legs covered with a blanket and
scarf tied around his neck. A short distance in the
background, Jeremy is purchasing a hot pretzel from a vendor
to feed the ducks.

Billy stares out at the pond. A small boy races by, almost
careening into Billy's wheelchair. He stops and stumbles
and starts to apologize but is taken aback by Billy's
appearance.

He stutters and stalls and finally just runs off. Billy
stares after him.

BILLY
Oh God. I now frighten small
children.

Jeremy starts back towards the bench.

A young girl is cautiously approaching Billy. She is
hesitant, but not fearful. Billy notices her and tries to
shrink down to be less threatening.

BILLY (CONT'D)
Hello.

YOUNG GIRL
Hello.

She looks at Billy curiously.

YOUNG GIRL (CONT'D)
Why are you in a wheelchair? Were
you in an accident?

BILLY
No. I'm just very sick. It's hard
for me to walk.

YOUNG GIRL
I'm sorry. My grandma was in a
wheelchair. She fell down and broke
her hip. Now she lives with me and
Mommy.

BILLY
Ah. And what's your name?

YOUNG GIRL
Elisa.

Jeremy has returned with pretzel in hand.

BILLY
Elisa. That's a very pretty name.

Elisa looks down at her feet, blushing.

BILLY (CONT'D)
And you're a very pretty girl.

ELISA
Thank you.

Elisa's MOM comes into view. She is not thrilled to see her
young daughter conversing with two strange men.

ELISA'S MOM
Elisa! Come here now--we have to be
going.
ELISA

(to Billy)
I have to go. Bye!

She runs off in the direction of her mother. Billy stares
after her.

BILLY
Bye!

He sighs.

BILLY (CONT'D)
I used to be pretty once...

Jeremy reaches out and gives Billy's shoulder a squeeze.

The Prophet

A scene from my first script, The Prophet--a meditation on mass marketing and the media...

EXT L.A. OUTDOOR CAFÉ - DAY

Alex, dressed to the nines as usual, is being escorted to a table where a scruffy RICK MUNROE is seated.

A single diner reads "Variety" - landing on a full-page ad which simply reads "Who is Joe Blank?" The diner's lips move mouthing "who is joe blank?" The diner looks up from the ad, puzzled.

Alex can't resist a self-satisfied smile as he passes the diner's table.

He arrives at Rick's table as Rick finishes up a conversation on his cell phone.

Although they are the same age, Rick, veteran of several rehab stints, looks a bit worse for wear. He is dressed "Incognito" - baseball cap and sunglasses.

RICK

What do you mean Sony won't see me?

They were begging me to sign with
them six months ago...Yeah well, he
can fuck me. Right, right—-you're a
funny guy, Stuart. You're going to
be a fired guy if you don't get me
some work.

Rick hangs up and switches gears. He rises and gives Alex
an enthusiastic hug. They both take their seats as a WAITER
hands them menus and pours water.

RICK (CONT'D)
(to the Waiter)
Can I get some iced coffee? Great.
(to Alex)
Caffeine. It's the only drug they'll
let me have. They even made me quit
smoking at Mayfair. Bastards. But
I still have caffeine.

The Waiter returns and pours Rick his iced coffee and leaves.

RICK (CONT'D)
Ah—-caffeine! I drink sixteen cups
a day. I gotta say, I haven't been
this wired since I quit coke...Hey
man! Good to see you! You look
great—-have you been working out?
What brings you to La-La Land?

ALEX
Actually, I'm out here on business.
Thought I'd check in and see how my
old roommate is doing.

RICK
Well, if you read the rags, you pretty
much know the story.

ALEX
At least they dropped the charges.

RICK
It only cost me her future college
tuition. Swear to God, she told me
she was eighteen.

ALEX
Your PR people certainly could have
done a better spin job there.

RICK
Assholes. They dropped me. Can you
believe? They dropped ME! Fuckers.

ALEX
So, you're in need of a publicist?

The Waiter returns to take their order.

RICK
You want the job? It's a pretty
tough case. No-one in this town
will touch me with a ten-foot pole
these days. And, I'm a bit tapped
out currently—-you are buying here?

ALEX
My treat.

RICK
I'll have the Nicoise salad and a
bottle of Pellegrino.

ALEX
Same for me. Thanks.

The Waiter collects their menus and leaves.

ALEX (CONT'D)
I think we can work out a mutually
beneficial arrangement.

RICK
What do you want? A back-end
percentage of the net?

ALEX
There is no such thing as net. And
besides, I'm not interested in
speculative ventures—-only sure
things. No, I have something a little
different in mind.

RICK
Such as?

ALEX
Cross-promotion. I have a new client.
Inspirational/motivational speaker.
I need to build some buzz on the
guy. And you're just the man I
need.

RICK
Uh—-I don't think any association
with me is going to be positive.

ALEX
You're forgetting the old
adage—"There's no such thing as bad
publicity."

RICK
I seriously doubt whoever said that
had been caught in a Motel Six with
a half-dozen hits of Ecstasy and a
16-year-old girl.

ALEX
Could have been worse. Could have
been a 16-year-old boy.

Rick snickers and swigs some iced coffee.

ALEX (CONT'D)
Anyway, the whole "bad boy" thing
works to both our advantage. My
client gets a soul to save and you
get a clean slate.

The Autograph Man by Zadie Smith

I'm doing pretty well on my solitary Book of the Month club. It's appears to be the only resolution that I've been able to follow through on. Other than eating plenty of peanut butter, which we all know was pretty much a given...I chose this novel by Zadie Smith because I was blown away her first novel, White Teeth. Well, just about everyone who read White Teeth was blown away by the 24 year-old's debut. Given the numerous awards and subsequent hype following the release of White Teeth, it's little wonder her follow-up, The Autograph Man deals with the dark side of celebrity.

Smith writes of Alex-Li Tandem, her eponymous half Jewish/half Chinese protagonist, "He deals in the shorthand of experience. The TV version. He is one of this generation who watch themselves." The book also deals with themes of faith and religion--the novel being broken into two parts of ten chapters, each headed with reference to Kabbalah (in part one) or Buddhism (in part two) as a nod to Alex's multi-cultural heritage. But mostly it deals with our fear of death, our quest for immortality. Alex's fills the hole in his soul left by the premature death of his beloved father, Li-Jin, by collecting autographs--selling them, trading them and occasionally faking them. But it's not so much autographs and celebrity as the process of collecting things, as Smith shows us with another character in the book, a friend of Alex since his childhood:

"Rabbi Mark Rubenfine had a patio and a wife, curtains and carpets, a power shower and a twelve-seater dinner table...He had collected things in his life, which is what you're meant to do, placing them carefully between you and death, as on an obstacle course."

The things Alex collects create not only an obstacle course between him and death--but between him and his closest relationships as well: Adam, his best friend--a video store owning, Kabbalah spouting pothead, Joseph, his other best friend--whose childhood autograph preoccupation inspired Alex to take it up as a full-time occupation, and Esther, Adam's sister with whom Alex has had an on and off love affair for the last ten years. The most sought after item for Alex's collection is an autograph from 40s B-movie star, Kitty Alexander. On his quest to retrieve it, he travels to New York and is aided by a germaphobic ex-hooker named Honey Smith.

Smith excels in creating eccentric and quirky characters--full of feeling and flaws. The Autograph Man, however, pales in comparison to White Teeth--partly because the odd-ball assortment of characters and heartwarming story of family shone so brightly. And it still dazzles in comparison to works by many other authors. By focusing mostly on Alex in The Autograph Man, telling the story completely from his point-of-view, Smith sacrifices the depth and breadth found her first novel. It certainly doesn't help that Alex-Li is a self-absorbed, substance abusing, sullen sourpuss. But she manages to give an engaging and credible account of the workings of the human mind and the inner life of self-imposed "outsider"--even amongst his closest relationships. Alex's obsession with the categorization of things as either "Jewish" or "Goyish" (based on the famous George Carlin comic routine) reflects the human need to pigeon-hole people and things into clearcut labels.

Alex is also fascinated with gestures--the shortcuts we take with shrugs and eye rolls to say in a second what words cannot convey. Oddly enough, his attachment to these small signs and statements comes into conflict with his reluctance to perform a Kaddish for his late father when he tells Adam, "To me it's a gesture, you know? Nothing more." To which Adam replies, "What's more important than a gesture?" Ultimately, the book is a coming of age story of the perennially adolescent Alex. As he is able to mourn the loss of his father, he finally opens himself up to loving, and eventually losing, the other people in his life.

Fall from Grace

If I said
you meant nothing to me
If I said
you were just something to do
Would you believe
the lie I'm living?
Would I believe
that my story is true?

Every day's
a little easier to live
without you,
but every night's
a little harder to face
And every time
I fall for the fool's line
and once again I fall from grace.

And I want you
I want you
I want you
I don't want to be alone
I look into your soul
and see the reflection of my own
I look into the mirror
and I see a stranger's face
Every time
I fall for the fool's line
and once again I fall from grace

Sometimes you're just
too far away
and sometimes you're
much too near
It's not the distance
that bothers me,
but the closeness that I fear

Every day's
a little easier to live
without you,
but every night's
a little harder to face
And every time
I fall for the fool's line
and once again I fall from grace

Every time
I fall for the fool's line
and once again I fall from grace

The Sidewalk Artist

This book selection came courtesy of my friend Ari. He went to school with one of the authors--either Gina Buonaguro or Janice Kirk who co-wrote the romantic novel together. I'm betting it was Gina as the small bio on the book flap says she was born in New Jersey. An interesting thing to co-write a novel. There are plenty of screenwriting teams, but writing a novel is usually a more solitary and individual pursuit. I thought it was cool that Ari went to school with a novelist (or "co-novelist" if there is such a thing...). It's not easy to write a book. It's not easy to write, period. But Gina and Janice co-wrote a little (209 pages barely! Quite a difference from the massive opuses I've been slogging through lately...) novel about a young woman who meets a sidewalk artist (hence the title...) while traveling through Europe.

From that short blurb, it seems the perfect set-up for romantic little story--and that's exactly what The Sidewalk Artist is. Blending a bit of art history with travelogue and traditional romance novel, the book spins a yarn about the lasting qualities of "true love." Yes, it's riddled with cliches and is way too simplistic and idealistic for its own good. But my biggest problem with The Sidewalk Artist was that ultimately it has as much depth and substance and endurance as the chalk drawings of its eponymous character.

The book delivers the standard romance novel formula: one dreamy, idealistic, pretty young woman meets mysterious, handsome stranger while at an emotional crossroads in her life. The pretty protagonist is Tulia Rose, whose fanciful name is far more interesting than she is. The story is told from her perspective, although in a distant third person. Not that it would make much difference. Tulia is pretty, smart and a writer. In fact, the authors use a "book-within-a-book" device in the story. Unfortunately, neither book is very good. (There's actually a third book, a travel guide penned by a character called "Miss Mercy" who turns out to be the most interesting character in the book and who whose book is more interesting than The Sidewalk Artist or the novel Tulia is writing...)

The handsome stranger goes by the name "Raphael" and from Tulia's point-of-view: "...she thinks she has never seen a man so beautiful. Eyes so dark, she sees herself not so much reflected in them as lost in them--and she is powerless to look away." Raphael is charming, romantic, witty and gorgeous--but aren't all romance novel heroes? Wouldn't it be a kicker to read something like: "...she thinks she has never seen a face like this--nose broken from one too many barfights, jagged scar crossing his left cheek and the trace of a hairlip that twists his mouth into a perpetual sneer." Okay, so MY hero isn't all that handsome but he's definitely more interesting...

The authors throw some twists into the traditional tale--reincarnated lovers, supernatural soulmates, revisionist history--but all in all I wasn't engaged enough by the characters or writing to care. I did appreciate that they avoided a pat happily ever after ending, but I would have preferred that the journey through Paris and Italy and back and forth between the Renaissance and modern had the evocative presence of Miss Mercy's zippy little fictional travel guide instead of the cribbed cliched shorthand of a hastily scribbled postcard.

Write what you know...

Once upon a time, I had a job writing articles for a relationship website. Which was ironic since I'm the world's worst expert on the topic. But the articles I wrote were really, really good. I happened upon the website the other day and some of my stuff is still up there--three years later. The main reason I quit is that the guy in charge of the operation (actually HE would be the world's worst relationship expert!) was a complete and utter asshole. And they didn't pay me jackshit or even give me a byline for material that obviously had withstood the test of time. Note to all writers: Don't give it away for free! Content is King!

I did exact a bit of revenge: my asshole ex-employer became a character in one of my screenplays. If the movie ever gets made, I doubt he'd recognize himself (despite the very obvious pseudonym), but I'm sure anyone who has ever worked for him would:

INT. JEFFRIES MEDIA GROUP - DAY

Allison sits across from Owen, scribbling on her notepad.

Owen is reclining in his chair and rattling notes to her
while simultaneously checking his e-mail.

Allison goes through the motions, but Owen's voice is just
an incessant drone:

OWEN
...media buys...placement...check
with..Youngman...rewrite...

Allison stares out the big glass window behind Owen's desk.

DISSOLVE TO:

Owen rocks and reclines in his oversized leather chair. The
chair tilts back--a bit too far--and CRASHES through the
plate glass window.

BACK TO REALITY

Owen is sitting up--laser eyes focused on the day-dreaming
Allison.

OWEN
I said--did you get that?

Allison snaps to attention.

ALLISON
Yes. I got it, Owen.

Owen looks dubious.

OWEN
Repeat it back to me.

Allison locks eyes with Owen. She has reached her limit.

ALLISON
Owen, I'm not a five year-old. I
wish you would stop treating me like
I'm completely incompetent.

OWEN
Well, Allison--I wish I didn't have
to double-check every little thing
you do, either.

ALLISON
You don't--

Owen sighs and shakes his head.

OWEN
I've tried to guide you, but you
keep resisting. You always make
things so difficult...

ALLISON
I'm not trying to make things
difficult--

OWEN
You see? There you go again. I am
trying to communicate with you and
instead of listening, you are being
defensive. I'm just trying to help
you, Allison.

ALLISON
I'm not being defensive, I'm just
trying--

OWEN
But that's the point--maybe the truth
is you are trying, maybe this is
truly the best you are capable of,
maybe you think I'm being an
asshole...

Owen smirks self-righteously.

OWEN (CONT'D)
But the fact is, the truth doesn't
matter. It doesn't matter in this
job, in politics or in life. What
matters is the perception of truth.
And my perception is that maybe you're
just not cut out to be my assistant.

Owen gives Allison a condescending smile. Allison stares
back at him.

CUT TO:
Allison punches Owen SMACK in the face. Owen grips his nose
as it spurts blood.

BACK TO REALITY

ALLISON
So...? Are you firing me?

OWEN
No. No. Not at all. Why don't we
just call it amicable parting of the
ways due to a mutual realization of
incompatible work styles?

Allison looks at Owen, dumbfounded.

ALLISON
So--I'm fired.

Owen sighs.

OWEN
See--you're being difficult again.
I was trying to give it a positive
spin--

He swivels away from her.

OWEN (CONT'D)
You can clear out your desk. I'll
cut your final check.

INT. JEFFRIES MEDIA GROUP - LATER

Allison has a box packed with her belongings. Owen approaches
her desk, check in hand.

Allison takes the check. She looks at it, concerned.

ALLISON
Owen, you forgot to include the pay
out for the two weeks vacation that
I never got a chance to take this
summer...

OWEN
Well--you forgot to give me the
standard two weeks notice--so we're
even...

ALLISON
But you fired me...

Owen sighs, aggravated.

OWEN

There you go--arguing again. I hope
you're not expecting a reference
letter...

Owen turns on heel and walks into his office, shutting the door.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream...

I had a dream last night. No, not the awe-inspiring Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. kind. My dreams are more of the mondo-bizarro David Lynch variety. Last night, I dreamt that I was hanging out with Jim Halpert (aka John Krasinski) from The Office. We were on some sort of pier on a waterfront and it was getting a little chilly. This was because we were both wearing just pajamas. So Jim suggested we sit on a bench and suddenly pulled out this big, green blanket for us to huddle under. I was leaning up against his shoulder, so the blanket practically covered me up entirely.

Then, who should appear but Pam Beesly (Jenna Fischer)! She spotted Jim and walked up to us, chatting in a friendly way. I kept as still as possible hoping she wouldn't spot me underneath the blanket and get the wrong idea. I mean who could misinterpret a completely platonic-ness of two people in pajamas huddled together under a blanket on a bench? But she saw my feet and was a bit miffed to say the least. I whispered to Jim to tell her I was a male buddy who was cowering under the blanket, hiding because I was dressed in drag for some hazing ritual. I can't believe she bought it!

Obviously, one doesn't need to be schooled in the art of dream interpretation to figure out this dream. I'm either anxiously awaiting the return of one of my favorite shows (April 10th!), or I seriously need to get a life.

Or both.

For what it's worth: I would never come between the world's cutest couple--long live Pam and Jim! Or as Kevin would put it: "PB and J." I'm looking forward to seeing what happens with them--as well as the love triangles of Angela, Andy and Dwight and Kelly, Darryl and Ryan. Not to mention Michael and Jan and the rest of the crew. Only 48 more days!

Sounds like a Jason Mraz song...

I loved this recent Craigslist post titled "Self-imposed apostle:"

Beware of an african american man who calls himself "apostle Ronnie". He has a deviant behavior that causes him to want to tickle women and smell their feet. It is disgusting. If you recieve any invitations from him to join his ministry decline until he has sought help. His church is called; Kingdom Truth. Myself and others have encountered his behavior and find it deplorable and unsafe for God's people. It is my concern: that his double life is mis-leading others.

I think the poster meant "self-proclaimed" apostle, but I think "self-imposed" sounds so much better. Sort of the sidekick to the curbside prophet...

Not so Resolute

I love the New Year. It's a fresh start, new slate, tabula rasa. Anything and everything is possible. What is most possible, however, is that many people will make resolutions and that most of them will break them before February. An article in the Washington Post gives some tips and tricks to making your resolutions stick. In fact, it was one of almost a dozen articles dedicated to New Year's Resolutions.

There was one on getting the most out of your digital camera (Did not get one for Christmas, so this is not useful...), one on banning misused and overused words and phrases from one's vocabulary(I noticed that "outside the box" is not on the list. In my opinion, anyone who uses the phrase "outside the box" is so inside the box, that the lid's been taped shut and it's been shipped to some red state via Priority Mail), one on mortgage and home buying resolutions (Let's hope not buying more house than one can afford is on that list!) and the typical career resolutions and fitness goals.

No matter how many articles are written on making and keeping New Year's resolutions, most are doomed to fail. Which is why don't make them. Or if I do, it's something that I'm bound to succeed at. Like, one year I resolved not to smoke. Unlike most people who resolve to stop smoking aided by patches, gum or just going cold turkey, I had the advantage of not being a smoker. So it was very easy to keep. I could resolve to go to the gym regularly (Already go three times a week for cardio/weights and another three times a week for yoga), eat healthily (done) or give up peanut butter (HEY!!! Let's not go crazy here!), but the fact is I'm nearly a perfect person (I guess I could work on being more humble...).

So instead of "resolutions," I'll set some New Year's "Intentions"--and they are:

1. Earn more money - Whether I sell that screenplay, win the lottery (both long shots...) or just get a new job, I need to being doing better than living hand-to-mouth. Los Angeles is expensive and I'd like to be able to afford living here. Rather than just subsisting here.

2. Find new place to live - Once I have the finances in better shape, my options for new housing will increase. I need more space, more privacy, more quiet. And an ocean breeze...

3. Get out more and meet new people - The fact that I'm doing laundry on New Year's Eve instead of hanging with some friends tells me--I need new friends. 'Nuff said.

4. Read more - I finally finished the nine zillion pages long book by Neal Stephenson (Yay!). I'm ready to rent more stuff from the library this year. I think I could manage a book a month. I'm going to start with something by Michael Chabon who wrote the awesome The Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.

5. Eat plenty of peanut butter! - Oh wait--I already do that. At least that's one I know I'll be keeping...

Jesus of Malibu

Saw Jesus heading east on Nebraska Ave. in West L.A. today. He was driving an early model dark sedan--maybe it was a sports car. I'm usually better at recognizing car makes/models--even memorizing license plates. Just a little game I play in case the driver is later accused of committing a crime and I have to give a detailed description to the police ("He was driving a late model SUV--silver-colored with California plates starting with 5WQ..."). OK--so the long-haired dude with the beard and mustache driving towards Century City probably WASN'T Jesus--but it sure looked like him...



EXT. OCEAN - NIGHT

Moonlight ripples over the ocean's surface. Two surfers, JAY and CHRIS, early 20s, languidly paddle out. Each nimbly mounts their board and waits for the wave to bring them back to shore.

They cruise the wave. Jay glances over his shoulder at Chris. Chris loses his balance. He falls off his board. Jay laughs.

The board pops up and smacks Chris in the head on its way down. Bubbles and blue-blackness as he descends below the surface.

Jay hops down from his board and paddles back to where Chris wiped out. His board bobs on the ocean's surface--but no sign of Chris anywhere.

JAY
Hey man. Cut it out. It's not funny.

Silence.

Jay jumps off his board and dives into the ocean.

The two vacant boards bob aimlessly for what seems an eternity.

Jay emerges to the surface, gasping for breath. He tows a limp, lifeless Chris as he furiously swims towards shore.

EXT. BEACH - MOMENTS LATER

Teresa, early 20s, sits hugging herself again the chill night air. She scans the shoreline--spots Jay and Chris. She rises to her feet as the two men emerge from the ocean. She runs towards Jay who still drags the unconscious Chris.

TERESA
Oh my God! What...? I told you! I told you it wasn't safe to surf at night!

Jay lays Chris on the ground. He drops to his knees and begins giving Chris mouth-to-mouth.

TERESA
He's not...Fuck! I can't believe this--You never listen to me! Why--

Jay takes a break to rage at Teresa.

JAY
Shut up! Shut the fuck up! You're not helping!

He resumes the mouth-to-mouth frantically. Teresa watches with growing horror. She looks around the beach.

It's deserted.

TERESA
HELP!!! HELP!!! Somebody--anybody--please help us! Oh, shit...

She drops to her knees next to Jay and Chris and softly cries.

TERESA
He's turning blue. Oh, God--

A pair of gnarled feet in worn-out flip flops appears next to the trio. Teresa smells him before she sees him. She looks up. The sight is more frightening than the cyanotic Chris laying lifeless on the sand.

The long matted brown hair, the scruffy beard, the piercing black eyes. Torn flannel shirt over stained t-shirt and patched shorts. The homeless man stares as Jay continues to try to revive his friend.

Silently the homeless man kneels next to Jay, who stops to catch his breath. Jay begins to cry.

JAY
C'mon, man. Don't do this to me!

Jay moves back in to continue the mouth-to-mouth. The homeless man gently holds him back. He places his leathery hands with their ragged dirty nails on Chris' chest. He stares up at the moon.

Jay and Teresa watch him--holding their breath.

He raises a fist to the sky and brings it down on Chris' chest. Chris' body lurches as if jolted with electricity. He coughs, chokes, spits out water and coughs some more.

Chris opens his eyes and sees the face of the homeless man, a hazy blur illuminated by moonlight.

Jay and Teresa look at Chris, stunned. The homeless man rises.

Jay grabs Chris' face in his hands.

JAY
You alright?

Chris nods and coughs some more. Teresa cries and laughs at the same time.

JAY
Goddamn it, Chris--you scared the shit out of us. If it hadn't been for--

He looks up at where the homeless man was standing.

No-one is there.

Teresa, Chris and Jay look around them--the man has vanished.

Blue February Way

Once upon a time I lived for a while in Columbia, MD. Columbia is a planned community divided into balanced little neighborhoods, meticulously laid out and kept up. It's like Disneyland without the rides. Anyway, one of the "things" about Columbia is that the names of the streets are literary allusions. For example, I lived on Faulkner Circle. I think...it was a long time ago. One of the streets I used to pass by was named "Blue February Way." That name and the aftermath of a bad break-up inspired some song lyrics. Here's a snippet:

You said you'd always love me
but I always knew you'd leave me
and now that I no longer love you
I find I never really did like you anyway
and I'll always remember you
in a blue February way...

Yeah--I'm not bitter...