who dat? contest.

(yo stee. i know
who dat?)

svetlana boguinskaia. big scary belrussian gymnast with black teeth.

first correct answer:
melissa kenton


So my work was moved into a new building a few miles away over the weekend, and this is our first day here. It's a nice location, and all that. My space is fine, though it's right near the LAN room with I.T. guys running in and out all day. But I'm pretty well hidden away, which is what I like. I.T. guys are a funny lot. Nice but harried guys running around with those cell phone/walkie-talkies all day. Smoking constantly. (But my new space is near BFT - Big Flaming Temp. His voice carries like the doves released during the opening ceremony of the Gay Games. He calls snacks, "nummies." "Stee, would you like some nummies?" I kid you not.)

And expectedly, nothing is really up yet. The whole system is down. Can't log onto the networks, can't log onto our main software, and, tragically, can't get onto the Internet.

And as I finished unpacking a couple hours ago, and had a long conversation with the Shark outside on my cell phone in which I finally said, "Listen: I have a feeling this isn't going to work out." (basically the contract sucked monkey ass and she didn't seem willing to negotiate - so I wasted lawyer fees, time, and mostly, hope), paid bills, and now there's not a whole lot to do.

And in this, I realize how attached I am to the Net. I can't read email, I can't read other journals, I can't check my shitty stocks or read the trades online or the New York Times. I can't read The Onion or see the photos of my friend's new baby he just put up. I can't check fares for the flight I need to book, nor can I complete an online application I have to get done. In other words, I have to look for something else to do...


I could read the book I need to cover for my other job. But I kid you not when I say this: it is a novel about the unifying nature of menstruation in biblical times. I guess you could call it a period piece. (Good night everybody!)

My cough turned into a cold/flu and I was sick most of last week and the weekend. Sucked big time. I'm getting better. Still: no upside to not smoking. None. I couldn't even smoke weed this weekend because of the cold. Had to light incense and try to inhale it vicariously.

Honestly. I'm beginning to feel like I have tons of things looming on the horizon. Last night it got to the point where it looked like I was going to be staring at the ceiling again all night with the racing mind disease. I have to corral these upcoming things somehow. Repeat after me: "I Am Interested, Stee." Good. I'm so glad...

Frank's film. (I'm just an actor on it. A feature.) Basically, this weekend as we auditioned actresses, it hit me just how quickly this thing is coming up. Without the full budget in place, Frank is shooting the video half of the film. That means we do it on weekends. Those weekends start in 2 weeks. With no rehearsal time. We're meeting this week to talk about the character, but basically I need to do my fucking work with the part. It's a great part. And though John (the lead, my character's best friend) and I already have our relationship fucking down, I have some work to do.

The four weekends of shooting are scattered around other events. One of them is this: I have to go to a wedding out of town. Alone. This guy is a good friend, but I don't know any of his friends. There might be one other guy there, but basically I'm on my own halfway across the country. In an expensive hotel. And now I have to make a plane reservation. Money I do not have. Love it.

Frank and I are going to a film festival in March to work on fundraising and to party. Some of his executive producers are speaking at the festival, so hopefully we'll get to meet some potential investors through them. Should be fun as hell.

We also want to complete the long version of our short, but I think Tom, the editor, is burned out on us. I don't blame him. We can be a bit much. Meanwhile, we continue to pimp the short. I got a call from New York, some company wants the piece for their website. Cool. It probably will be on 3 others. It's all about content baby. They are fucking hungry for it. Seriously.

The comedy script. Frank gave me some good notes this weekend, but basically they are extremely minor. Will take me about an hour or two to take care of them all. He and M. both dig the thing. Who ultimately knows, but I think it's pretty tight. So a minor polish, then... it goes out. I make 2 million dollars. I develop a massive coke habit and spend all night wired, typing entries about "fucking director ruining my work". Readers refuse to read my 30 page journal entries and disappear. But soon the popularity of plaintivewail.com rises once more as I smartly begin to include QuickTime clips of secretly-taped exploits with women I pick up at SkyBar by flashing money around the joint.

The action script. The opinion on this varies a little bit more, but basically Todd and I think we can fix the thing in a few weeks. So technically, we do a rewrite on this. Then... it goes out. I make another 2 million dollars. My coke habit causes me to flip my Beemer on PCH one night while heading back from Jason Priestly's party at Geoffrey's in Malibu. Detox follows. It doesn't stick.

The Nichol script. With my deal with the Shark dead in the water (man, my puns are on), the script is too. I don't feel like attacking it again right now. Indeed part of the reason I soured on the deal was that I feel like I've moved on to new projects, and don't really feel like revisiting this thing right now. To rewrite it would be a major job. Maybe I'll do it someday. Like when I finally go back into rehab after the second car crash and I'm flat broke. I'll rediscover my "roots" and be really "fueled" by the "work" and get clean and start playing tennis and writing during the day. I'll realize the bimbos never loved me and settle down with some nice girl I meet at Ralph's in the produce section and finally finish the script... Then it'll sell for 2 million dollars and the whole thing will start over again.

And you are all invited to my huge ostentatious Bacchanalian parties. Deal?

The Corin "Corky" Nemec Happy Song Corner

Her green plastic wateringcan. For her fake chinese rubberplant. In the fake plastic earth, that she bought from a rubber man. In a town full of rubber plans to get rid of itself. It wears her out. She lives with a broken man. A cracked polystryreneman who just crumbles and burns. He used to do surgery for girls in the eighties but gravity always wins and it wears him out. She looks like the real thing. She tastes like the real thing. My fake plastic love... speaking of which. I was meeting with a director, I can't mention his name, dude, and in his office he had this little like, snowflake some girl, his daughter maybe, had made for him, right? A little snowflake on the wall and he was talking to me about this character, this really great character who had this anger inside him, you know. Just this blinding anger. And as I listened to him I began to feel the anger, man, just feel the anger of this character. So he talked, blah blah blah, and as he talked I walked over to the wall and whipped out my zippo and lit the snowflake on fire. The snowflake just crumbles and burns and I turn to the director, i turn with my anger on display, waiting for him to see how with this character I am... and he has security escort me out. Fucking people don't understand acting, man. But that's alright. I prefer not everyone get it. It's not just for everybody. Is it for you?
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