Dream. Part 1

His back is turned to me.

He is anxious, shuffling his feet, torn between looking me in the eye and running in the other direction.

But this time, he’s not running.

Not yet, anyway.

He wants to. I want him to.

But I don’t.

To tell the truth, I’m enjoying it.

He wrings his hands, shifts his weight, writhing in mental anguish. He’s tasting what I’ve felt for years. To live, eat, and breath pure, unadulterated fury and anger.

He’s under pressure, alarms are ringing in his head, his breath is shallow, he needs out.

He doesn’t want to do it. He can’t do it. But he needs to.

And it’s tearing him apart.

The mere thought of having to confront a problem and admit to his faults is wreaking havoc on his ability to speak.

He’s mumbling and fighting and arguing with himself.

One side begging him to give in, to accept it. To lay it all on the line, and man up no matter how hard it seems.

The other side screaming and belittling him for being so weak and disgusting. How dare he put you in this situation? Your own fucking son. How can he be so fucking callous—you’ve done your part. It’s not your fault. Fuck him and get on with your life.

How did it come to this?

More lost treasure

This was a spot I wrote for a local car dealership. Needless to say, it didn't make the cut.

I like the premise and the writing needs tweaking, but not all together bad for one of my first radio spots.

When reading it, keep in mind ANCR 2 has a really gruff voice, kind of like a hungover Hell's Angel.

Here goes:


ANCR 1: Because we have more cars in one place than any place in
Oregon –

ANCR 2: What’d you say?

ANCR 1: Oh. Hello…didn’t see you there. Is there something I can help you with?

ANCR 2: What’d you say before?

ANCR 1: What? Oh, “more cars in one place than any place in Oregon?”

ANCR 2: Yeah. It ain’t true.

ANCR 1: Sure it is. We have the recent numbers –

ANCR 2: It can’t be true. My buddy Steelhead has five different cars sitting right in front of his trailer.

ANCR 1: Steelhead? Um, I don’t think we’re talking about the same-

ANCR 2: I don’t want any apologies or anything like ‘at. I jus’ want you t’mention Steelhead’s place, you know? Truth in Advertisin’ and whatnot.

ANCR 1: Yes, but Royal Moore Auto Center is paying for the production and-

ANCR 2: Just say it and I won’t bring the cops into it…I think the local branch’d be plenty happy t’catch wind of this.

ANCR 1: If I say it will you leave?

ANCR 2: Most assuredly.

ANCR 1: Alright. “Royal Moore Auto Center and Steelhead’s trailer have the most cars in one place than any other place in Oregon. Come and test drive any car, truck, or SUV from seven different manufacturers! Or visit royalmoore.com.” There. How was that?

ANCR 2: It was okay, but I’d change ‘trailer’ to ‘joint.’ That’s just me, though.

Winter Cleaning

I had a half hour to spare before a meeting and started cleaning out and organizing my hard drive's folders.

I had the sincere joy of running across this little slice of literary genius.

The document's file name is "NorthPoleU.doc".

And this is what I found when I opened it:

After I finished my internship at North Pole U, I was earnestly promoted to Little Helper. No, not an elf; they’re fairly unpleasant, especially with anyone cresting over four feet. Little Helpers don’t actually make the gifts or deliver them—a common misrepresentation of our impact in the Holiday Season. You see, we load and unload the sleigh. 1,500 kilotons. It's not fun. Then there's the cramped chimneys.

and 757s.

and Flatulent reindeer.

You’d want a drink, too.

--Secret Santa


_______________________


When I read this, I had no clue what it was about until the very last line. Then it all came flooding back to me. It was a note I added to a Secret Santa gift: a nice bottle of Concannon Cabernet Sauvignon.

There you go.

Miracles do happen

I haven't been posting lately.

Obviously.

Maybe it's because I didn't have anything to say. But more likely it has to do with not wanting to say anything. It's weird. I "write" for a living, and then I have to force myself to write anything that doesn't relate to work directly. In other words, anything that's fun. Not that work isn't fun lately. It actually has been.

I always wonder if it would be different if I were, say, a steel mill worker. I spend all day doing the things a steel mill worker does (the research that went into this must be astounding to you right now), and then goes home, crack open a can of beer, and then say, "Man, I can't wait to weld some more steel in the garage."

I think it's safe to say that mill workers probably can't stand the sight of iron or metal of any sort; like a 'Nam vet who hyperventilates (hard word to spell, by the way) every time a balloon pops or an Asian person acknowledges him.

Okay, maybe not.

All I'm saying is that if you do something for a living that also happens to be what you love--even though you're getting "paid" for it--you tend to spend less time doing it because you do it so much at work as it is.

Maybe a better analogy would the male porn star who acciodently lost control of his, uh, stuff right before the thrilling conclusion.

Maybe not.

Maybe it's the poker player who goes on a streak at the practice tables, but can't pull a decent card when it really matters...he wasted his good luck on the stuff that didn't really count.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting to attend.