My imagination and creative process isn’t something I can turn off. It’s always on, always churning out something. One consequence of this is that whenever there’s a particularly dry moment in my life like, say, when I’m doing laundry, I start to imagine what kind of music I’d use to score the moment I’m in.
It can be a little distracting while I’m living, but I often feel like I’m constantly split into two selves: the person actual in the moment and the person outside of it, trying to sync music to what’s going on. Read more...
Remember being a kid? No? Then you’re probably old enough to appreciate this.
Growing up and being shoved vegetables in my face always seemed like it would be the least pleasant experience I’d ever go through from the perspective of prepubescent, sixteen-year-old me. I always dreamed of an escape from the dinner table and that sort of culinary water boarding.
I always dreamed of a land with candy cane lampposts and gum drop buttons. I drooled at the idea of whole day’s meals composed only of sugar and sweets. Little did I know that land of lore was no lie – it was very real.
And its name is the Craft Service table. Read more...
Part of being a filmmaker is loving films. Part of being American is being a consumer whore. From the overlap of these two demographics come most of the sales of DVD/Blu-Ray collector’s sets.
I am, of course, part of that most unlucky of overlaps and for those like me, resisting the siren call of totally unnecessary things is a Herculean task. Read more...
Ah, the flashback sequence. Growing up, I remember watching them in movies and being taken back to times I had never experienced myself, moments that – to me – seemed to be from time immemorial. A land before time even.
People dressed in ways that seemed absolutely ridiculous to me. Cars would be of models and even makes that my young mind did not even recognize, let alone had heard of. And people in these flashbacks tended to be a lot more racist.
The past in a capsule, so it seemed. And a capsule very distant from my own experiences as a very, very young kid.
So now, like the last episode of Lost‘s third season, we flash forward – to last week, when I was watching Green Lantern on Blu-Ray. Read more...
I love awkwardness. All my comedy sketches and ideas involve, in some way, shape, or form, the concept of awkwardness.
Just like how people who normally don’t like being scared flock to horror movies, I feel as though most, if not all, people secretly enjoy (harmless) discomfort. All my life, I have prided myself on being impervious to all attempts at being made to feel awkward.
As of last night, one person can deny me this claim. Read more...
You’re watching some random movie in your Netflix queue when you discover that one of the main actors/actresses is super bangin’. Most people just get aroused and let it be.
I’m not most people. As a film fanatic and professional pervert, I promptly head to my computer to look the movie up on IMDb.
There, I can find the character name, then the person who played them before proceeding to Google their name for any naked pictures of them. Then, well, I go to my happy place. It has lot of rainbows — OF SEMEN. I should probably get that checked. Read more...
Halloween (or “Halloweekend” as I like to call it since who in their right mind parties on a Monday – oh shit, I guess that means I’m old) is just around the corner and that can mean only one thing: coming up with a costume!
I’ve always loved role-playing and I’ve always loved movies so this holiday has always been a miraculous fusion of my two favorite things in the world.
Long ago, I was unknowingly dressed up as the clown from It. Sometime after that, I was made up to be an Asian member of the Men in Black. And of course, I was Darth Vader sometime along the way.
This year, I’m adding another movie character to my ongoing list of Halloween outfits and it’s Driver from Drive. Read more...
As a film school graduate, you are subject to very specific expectations from people: that you are unemployed and that you know every movie ever made.
Sorry to disappoint everyone: I’ve been at my job with Del Taco for seven months and I don’t know that one movie that one guy did back in the 1940s.
It’s the most bizarre thing in the world. The moment someone hears of your film school background, you become less a person and more a walking repository of cinematic information and trivia. I have enough trouble impressing people as it is with my lameness and my cane. Read more...
A good source of inspiration for writing stories is, of course, your own personal history. This explains why many of my stories are weird.
Lately, I’ve been trying to dig up my past for some good ideas and quite accidentally came across a really peculiar proclivity I had as a child. It all happened at my desk, my brain deep into my own mind sifting old noteworthy moments in my existence. As it did so, my hand absently drifted to my leg and began to scratch.
To my surprise, I found a little cluster of scabs at the base of my left leg. Where did it come from? How did it get there? Neither question popped into my head because as I scratched at them, an intense pleasure filled me up. Then a memory returned to me, one I thought had long been lost… Read more...
As a filmmaker and storyteller, ideas are my bread and butter. They are the seeds I must water and nurture if I ever want to harvest full-grown films and books.
Generally speaking, the best parts of creating art are the beginning and the end. The end, of course, for the obvious reasons of being finished and looking upon your completed work with satisfaction.
And then the beginning – for all of the possibility that lies in front of you, all the excitement you have for that new thing in your life. That one special idea.
See, folks: I have an addiction. And the thing I’m hooked on is starting new ideas.
I respect all parts of the writing and creating processes, but I also probably have ADD. As much as I’d love to stay committed to any one seed, my brain always comes up with a new one to lead me astray with.
After a certain point, the process becomes a grind you must push through before you get to the end, a trial of will so to speak. How badly do you want to finish the work? That is the question it presses at every turn.
In a way, for me, it becomes less about pursuing the pleasures of new ideas and more just a concession made to satiate my restless mind. Plainly put, it’s like I’m playing a game of Whack-a-Mole with my own self. And I need to get better at it. Read more...
If there’s anything Stephen King taught us, it’s that all work and no play make Jack a dull boy that tries to kill his family with an ax. Sitting in a chair and writing long enough is a surefire way to drive yourself into and up a wall.
It took long enough but I found my means of decompression with Parkour classes.
Parkour is intended to be less a sport and more a philosophy – a philosophy of overcoming obstacles both physical and mental. I’ve been doing it for about two months now. In that span of time, I’ve climbed shit; jumped over shit; and rolled over shit and it was only this past week that that possibly became more literal than I ever feared.
Our class takes place in a wide-open space of a huge gymnasium. Before we can begin our exercises, we usually watch the tail end of a gymnastics session. I can attest to the fact that while this was going on this past week, there was most definitely no poop on the floor.
As we carried on, things went by as they usually did on the surface: normally. Each of us sweated through warm-ups and some practice of the weekly technique being taught. Then, while our instructors were setting up for the next part of class, I hear something, something I needed a double take on:
“Is that poop on the floor?” Read more...
The subconscious is a funny thing. Dreams are its domain and unfortunately remembering our nocturnal adventures into ourselves is never a guaranteed outcome.
When we do however, the matter of deciphering those recollections still remains. And I really need your help making sense of this one.
Last week, I had a dream that was preceded not by any drugs, drinks, or drunks. It was the quiet of quietest nights that came before and that is what made the nightmare that follows so much more jarring.
In this dream, I awoke in the same bed I slept in, in the same apartment in the same complex in which I actually live. It started off with the minutiae that comprises my typical day at home. There was the shower; the bowl of cereal; the ten minutes on reddit (okay, so maybe my subconscious took some creative liberties for the sake of runtime). Read more...