It's 3:14 Am and I stare at the moon from the balcony. It's easily 10 degrees cooler outside of our apartment which is drenched in all the best shades of white the world has to offer. In cotton shorts and no shirt I stare out across the road and note the woman in the house on the corner sitting at her desk writing and consider that I should stop and write as well. I wonder if she's writing a screenplay, or a novel, for enjoyment, or a letter to her mother. 

 

I wonder if it will be reviewed publicly in the press.

 

I wonder if she will let me proofread it.

 

I wonder if I could own one of the short quotes of praise on the back.

 

"Truly a masterpiece of our times," says the New York Post.

 

"Powerful and Spellbinding,' says the New Yorker.

 

"Poignant and Post-Coital!' declares Roe Sellers.

 

I chuckle to myself and walk to my bed where I will assuredly write a screenplay. 

 

Scratch that.

 

I chuckle to myself and walk to my bed where I will assuredly check facebook, look to see if anyone has posted a new job on entertainmentcareers.net, monster.com, or craigslist in the 15 minutes since I last checked which is assinine because it's 3:00AM and all of Hollywood's movers and shakers are in bed now, underneath their sheets with much higher thread counts than mine, behind gated driveways and expensive security systems. 

 

I try to picture the hollywood executive that will read my manuscript, my novel, my screenplay - this blog, and think to himself "HOLY shitting wizards, this kid has exactly what we're looking for! He's abrasive, self-depricating, witty, with a hint of dark humor and intelligence, why is he not on our staff?"

 

As I lay in my bed picturing this scenario, suddenly April is in the bed as well - not sensually, just there to exist and torture me.

 

"No hollywood executive will purchase your script if you don't write it first".

 

Intelligent - that's April. Or at least that's April in my head. That's the kind charm that reignites a crush from the 6th grade, which I excellently told her about while drunk on $1.99 a bottle Chadonnay from Trader Joes. In my unemployment, I've found a great deal of time to converse with people about how I will ONE DAY be a great Hollywood writer. Her command of the english language is somehow powerful and vivid, but also strangely grounding and gratifying.

 

"That's right, I say to her - that's right I do need to write, that's how my whole future will come together. Unfortunately", I say to her with a sigh, "unfortunately my writing isn't all that great and I have to attention span of a newborn fruit fly or a pre schooler at the zoo".

 

"Nonsense, you're being ridiculous - you're writing is lovely. Stop complicating things for yourself" 

 

A new voice. Erica - EJR, in the flesh, now sitting at the foot of my bed, her hair elegantly disheveled about her glasses, her blue eyes - the same blue eyes I'd swoon over any day - peering over a beaten copy of some american classic. Animal Farm maybe? Perhaps the Great Gatsby? I notice the chipped finger nail polish as she turns a page; her eyes light up and she purses her lips together in the way I love, probably thinking of the perfect insult since our relationship is founded on mutual cruelty and passionate sarcasm.

 

Erica will now psycho-analyze my writers block, while April will offer useful advice that to me is somewhere just short of the perfect advice I need to carry on.

 

"Maybe you can't write because you don't really want to,'' Erica would offer.

 

"I think you're very witty and creative - you just need to tap into that and market it to the rest of the world,'' April suggests.

 

"Roe, when you left Baltimore, you promised me you'd find a normal girl to inspire you" someone stays sternly.

 

Shit that's right, I did say that. That's Amanda by the way, and she's now pensively resting her head upon my pillow staring at the ceiling.

 

"And so you drove 3000 miles to imagine of your high school girlfriend, a middle school crush, and the girl you're convinced is something special lounging on your bed," she chides. "That doesn't seem very productive!"

 

"I live in Los Angeles, California," I reply. "No one here is normal. Everyone is 'in the industry' - except me. I'm unemployed. No one turns right on red, and everyone has the desire to tell you about their personal lives. I imagine that if I were to walk home drunk from the bar and be struck by a car, the following scenario would take place"

 

EXTERIOR – NIGHT TIME, BUSY STREET

A PARAMEDIC ARRIVES ON THE SCENE WHERE A CAR HAS APPARENTLY HIT SWERVED TO TRY TO AVOID A PEDESTRIAN – THE PEDESTRIAN, ROE, IS LAYING IN A PULL OF HIS OWN BLOOD NEAR THE SIDEWALK, IN OBVIOUS PAIN.

                                               

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Oh dude, man, shit, that’s gnarly. That looks seriously bad man, but

                        No worries, we’ll have you in tip top shape in no time bro! Can you

                        Hear me alright man?

 

                                                ROE

                        Ah…yeah. I can hear you fine…I got clipped by a car at the knees,

                        not any sort of brain trauma.

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Do you have health insurance and an emergency contact available

                        Buddy?

 

                                                ROE

                        Well, my emergency contact would be my rooomate, and he’s over

                        There with the officers giving a statement. And no, I just moved out

                        to California, no job, no insurance.

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Oh yeah bro, I toally know what it’s like. It sucked before I got my

                        feet in the industry, no job, nothing. Wow man, that’s a lot of blood,

                        good thing I got some bandages am I right?

 

COLOUR DRAINS FROM ROE’S FACE. HE APPEARS TO BE GOING INTO SHOCK. CONFUSION COLOURS HIS FACE

 

                                                ROE

                        In the industry? Please tell me you’re a real paramedic and not an

                        Actor?

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

                        Shit man, what, you think they don’t need on set paramedic crews

in case of emergencies do you? Man , once I worked on a set for an action movie with Harrison Ford, and that bastard god like, a fucking sunburn from the heat of an explosion and he wined like a baby. Oh shit dude, this is so cool I can see your bones man, your shin is sticking out of your jeans!

 

ROE WHIMPERS AND PASSES OUT. THE PARAMEDIC HURREDLY MOTIONS SOME COWORKERS OVER.

 

                                                PARAMEDIC

Haha look at this shit man, kid gets hit by a car and goes into shock. What a douchebag, he’s never gonna make it in the industry!

 

ROE GOES INTO CARDIAC ARREST AND NEARLY DIES BUT IN A LAST MINUTE TWIST, THE INK PEN AND MOLESKINE NOTEBOOK IN HIS FRONT POCKET SLOWS THE BLEEDING AND HE MIRACULOUSLY LIVES AND WRITES A SCREENPLAY ABOUT HIS TRAUMATIC EVENT WHICH WINS AN OSCAR.

 

(Authors Note: Yes I’m aware I stole the random item stopping a serious injury from STRANGER THAN FICTION. No, I don’t care that it isn’t original, most things in Hollywood aren’t: evidence? The yearly remakes of movies that are less than 30 years old)

 

All the girls laugh and swoon at my witty improvisational humor.

 

I wish to clarify that all of these girls have much better vocabularies and verbal mannerisms than noted in this rant, but uh...I suck at dialogue. Which is probably why I'm stressing over this screenplay. Damn it.

 

So now I'm sitting in my bed talking to three beautiful girls admiring my writing that hasn't remotely been written yet. I'd have absolute no chance with any of them if we were in the same room, but here in my head, 3000 miles from either, I am infinite. I am witty to the point of being hysterical, I am intelligent, and I am the best damn writer the industry has ever seen.

 

They may in fact read this blog linked from Facebook and wonder why I've written about them, which is stupid of them because really, anyone I've ever met should expect to be because lets face it : I’m really not that creative. I’m just a decent storyteller is all. It’s just a case of art imitating life.

Actually, my fictional scenario with girls I’m smitten with is more like life imitating art. I’ve watched too many chick flicks from the 80s and that’s why I’m blessed with the ability to use my own literature to torture myself at what is now 4:38 in the morning.

As a note, it is now 4:39 in the morning here on the Left Coast. I have not at all succeeded at writing my script, but have excelled at insulting myself. Now however, I have to work on the script so that I can feel like I’ve accomplished something.

 

I will however save this for my future Memoire. It will be called by one of the three following titles:

1)“My Life as An Elevator: Up, and Down”

2) “You’re Going to Make Someone Very Happy Oneday, Or So They Say”

3) “I Should’ve Stopped Talking 30 Seconds Ago, but Continued Rambling”

 

Whatever the title, I hope the New York Post finds it Poignant and Post-Coital.