OUTTA THE VALLEY AND INTO THE HILLS (aka Daniel Larusso's Wettest Dream)

30 days ago I had an epiphany.

I'll try to sum up the epiphany up in words (though I'm discovering the larger feelings in life are limited to experience) ...

30 days ago I decided to move to a Higher Elevation. To escape the San Fernando Valley (for reasons unlimited).

Now, I have 2 days to move my shit out of the valley and into Beachwood Canyon:
Beachwood Cyn circa 1920's

Anyway, April is the perfect month to move as tax refunds are ripe for security deposit. All I gotta do now is figure out how to cover the 40% rent increase ...

Easy. Just work more.

12 hour days will occasionally become 18 hour days (split between two gigs sometimes). And the other night I went down to take a nap between editing stints and felt my heart palpitate like I couldn't remember it palpitating before. But it didn't bother me. In fact, learning how to manage stress at that level empowers one further.

It's a steep slope, but such is life. No risk: no reward. I visualize myself in a month or two, or three - when I'm finally situated in the new place, with enough surplus cash to actually sit down and WRITE.

I thought I could do this in The Valley. I took three months off earlier this year to write ... And all I have to show for it are 4 character sketches (albeit solid ones) and less than ten pages of script.

Life was getting boring. No inspiration: no pages. Not to say that inspiration doesn't come from living in shitty places - it does. But another thing I'm learning is that I need to CONTINUE to EXCEL to NEW HEIGHTS in life. Otherwise, I just get disinterested with myself and the feelings I'm trying to portray on-page.

And I think there's something to be said for LIVING AT YOUR ABSOLUTE PEAK. And I want to say that that's when your BEST writing material comes to you. At your peaks.

Actually, I take that back. I think your best material comes when you're at your extremes - either absolute peak OR rock bottom. But who wants to hit rock bottom just to tell a fuckin story? I did once. And I wouldn't dare attempt to write that story until I've successfully mastered the craft through at least a half-dozen other projects.

"Writing is the most disciplined of all the arts" - Louise Brooks

It's true.

Bruckheimer's Hollywood

Excerpts from a recent interview with Jerry Bruckheimer (from Rotten Tomatoes):

BRUCKHEIMER: In the old Hollywood system, studios used to have writers under contract. Every screenplay went through five different writers. It started with the plotter, the guy who wrote the great plots, then they'd give it to the character person, then they'd it to the punch up dialogue, then they'd give it to the female writer, who bolstered the female characters, then they'd bring in somebody, if it was an action movie, who understood how to write action... it went through all these different hands. That's why you have all those great movies in the '30s and '40s that had brilliant dialogue; they went through so many different typewriters.

RT: Do you think a similar writing system could work today?

BRUCKHEIMER: Well, we sort of do it. It's rare that we have writers like Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio, who can actually do everything. The problem is, there may be ten of them in Hollywood, and they're always busy so you can't always get them. So you have to find somebody else and nurture them along, or you have to go through a bunch of different computers to get where you have a complete screenplay.

...

1. Are there really only 10 writers in Hollywood capable of "doing everything?" That's good news.

2. Bruckheimer is the most (monetarily) successful producer of all time. He produces the most expensive movies on planet Earth. And yet, he "can't always" get the best writers to work for him? That doesn't make $en$e. Why not pay the extra few million (out of your $200+ budget) and buy the best writers? They're never too busy for a golden paycheck.

I haven't enjoyed a Bruckheimer movie since The Rock. And he hired Tarantino to do a polish of that script. So maybe shuffling scripts through various writers works sometimes.

BUT MAYBE THE ORIGINAL WRITERS THAT BRUCKHEIMER HIRES JUST DON'T HAVE THEIR SHIT TOGETHER. So why hire them in the first place?

Producers have nurtured writers since the advent of the screenplay, right? Fuck it!

I saw a giant billboard on Sunset this evening of new the Apatow-wannabe comedy "I Love You, Man." I imdb'd it a few hours ago, clicked on the full cast and crew listing and counted EIGHT producers. Then I chose a random 50's big budget comedy - Some Like it Hot - and imdb'd it: THREE producers.

What the fuck do we need the extra FIVE producers for?

To "write" the movie, perhaps because the writer didn't do it?

I mean, producers want quality, right? - if they read it, they buy it.

But if they don't read it, they get ideas, and nurture them to fruition "through a bunch of different computers."

Notice Bruckheimer doesn't say "through a bunch of different WRITERS?" Hmmm ... So COMPUTERS generate movies now. Makes perfect sense.

BLOODY BANANAS AND REPUBLICANS

A dream this morning:

I go to the store for groceries and a crumb (pot's legal in the state now - so much so you can buy it at Ralph's Grocery) So I buy a few bananas and a small, black, half-smoked crumb.

I go to my car - packed with shit; I guess I'm the process of moving (out of town or into town, I'm not sure ...). I put my groceries and crumb under the front seat for safekeeping, then lock the car and go to the movies.

When I get back, I can't find my car. SHIT. It finally happened. Someone jacked it. I walk around the parking lot twice. On the second round, BOOM. See the car - parked INSIDE of a furniture store. I enter the store.

What the fuck? They took the work desk from my car and put it on sale.

If I don't have a desk, I can't work. If I can't work, I can't work, so I listen to the store manager's sales pitch (he gives it in front of a huge crowd).

He wants to PAY ME for my desk. Fine, how much? "$2300," he yells back, and I try to remember if I bought the desk for more or less. Pretty positive it was less. So I play along. Walk up to the stage. He's performing his "buyer" routine, slamming bills down on a table in front of me and counting them out. "One thousand! Two thousand! Twenty-one hundred ...."

They're all one-dollar bills.

I call bullshit on this guy's practice. "Dude, you steal my shit, then you offer to "buy" it from me for pennies? I need that fuckin work desk! ..." Whatever. He doesn't listen, just keeps performing for the crowd: making promises and lying his ass off.

At this point all I want do do is make this dude feel pain. There's a pen in my hand; I visualize it going into his eyes. Then I move forward ... stealth mode ... but he sees the attack in my face, and dodges my shank a few times over. Then his security steps in, strips me down to my underwear and escorts me off the premises ...

Some time later, I return to the parking lot where they stole everything. I'm naked but for briefs (which I haven't worn since age twelve), and I'm thinking, I don't even have my car keys ...then I see my car parked alongside a building. Transients are surrounding it, washing the windows with rags and spray cleaner. I walk up to find my keys inside: front door unlocked, with all my shit intact. Sweet.

I hop in the car. Immediately, one of the transients jumps in the passenger seat - he slams the door on his buddies and locks it. Another transient pounds on the window - pissed.

"Take me to Fourth St," he tells me, and I'm in a good mood so I concede. We start driving. I reach down for a banana. As I pick it up, see the color red.

THE BANANAS ARE SOAKED IN BLOOD.

The transient cackles - he knows he's gonna kill me. I open the door and BAIL from the driver's seat. The transient freezes; he doesn't know how to drive ... The vehicle moves forward without a driver and plunges into a pole.

I go back to the original site of my woes - the furniture store. Only it's not a furniture store anymore, it's a campaign office for Sen John McCain.

I find a tire iron, preparing to break every window in that office. As I reach back I IMAGINE that glass shatter before it occurs to me:

When I do shatter that window, the media will make this all seem like a hate crime against the Republican campaign, but really ... all I want is to vent my anger SOMEWHERE.

I think of my family. I think of my reputation. My career. I put down the tire iron and walk away.