goodbye old paint

moving to tumblr!

2008-06-15T17:41:00.000-07:00

I can't resist, it looks so nice! :) Check it out here from now on:

http://goodbyeoldpaint.tumblr.com

exciting weather

2008-06-12T19:01:00.000-07:00

What if I drink all night, in my room
in my nest
to say this the best:
My favorite people are the cat and you.
You both have big red heart tags.

I could trip on these guitar cords
coiling round my water glass
by my bed,
the hourglass I never said I had.
I’ll keep myself busy
with my books and art newsletters;
I hope you have exciting weather
and I hope you know you bring out the klutz in me
but
you’re my antibiotic cream.

I’m building my fortress
(but you and the cat get through)
out of martini glasses,
which we laugh at, we do
because they’re shallow and fragile
but I’m an old warrior, anticipating blows
I still have to throw
everything I have at the dark,
when it’s over, when you’re not
what I thought you were.

Wild-eyed and dirty
I’m peering from the brush
with a slender cigarette and the shakiest of heels
of desire and beliefs and my stubborn pipedreams
which you kindle,
into fire,
and say “Go!”

successful people, stop complaining

2008-06-04T10:09:00.000-07:00

You people are pathetic. If someone is snapping pictures with their camera phone at one of your shows, you should be honored.

Shame on you, Carrie Brownstein!!!! To think I've been following your own goddamn blog.

Excerpts from "Are cellphones ruining the concert experience?" (Dallas Morning News)

What if you gave a concert and the crowd refused to watch?

"It's extraordinarily irritating," says Roger Waters of Pink Floyd fame. "All these people holding up these horrid little squares of bright light."

"It's like they're not even there," says jazz guitarist Bill Frisell. "It's like, 'Why don't you put that away and listen to the music?' "

"It drives me crazy," says singer Steve Earle. "They have their use, but there's definitely a price to pay."

As a performer, it's frustrating to look out and see a sea of cellphones instead of faces," says Sleater-Kinney guitarist Carrie Brownstein. "There's definitely a problem where people are so busy documenting the moment that they forget to just live in the moment."

"Everyone has this strange archiving addiction now. It's like they're trying to pin a butterfly to a corkboard," says Canadian singer Feist. "To me, a gig isn't supposed to be for posterity," she says. "It's supposed to be a bunch of people tossed together in a room, making a mood, and then it's over. You can't see the world through a viewfinder."

"I see people calling their friends and saying, 'Hey! Guess where I am? I'm at the Roger Waters show,' just so somebody somewhere can be impressed by them," says Mr. Waters. "It's about them showing off." [Is he not showing off right now, by using himself as an example?]

"It's a personal choice. We shouldn't say 'you can't have a cellphone,'" says Ms. Brownstein of Sleater-Kinney. "But it's frustrating," she says. "There's a generational gap where people no longer know how to experience life without technology."

Thank god some musicians are intelligent:

"My bottom line is communication," says English rocker Billy Bragg. "If they want to capture a photo of me and send it to a friend who can't be at the gig, I don't have a problem with that."

"Do you want people to be strapped to their seats, with their eyes pinned open and a jolt of electricity if their mind should stray?" says Police drummer Stewart Copeland.
"Cellphones don't bother me," he says. "An audience that's so excited it's shooting the band with its cellphones is an audience that's throbbing with the pulse of the band."

one of my favorite billie holiday songs

2008-05-23T12:16:00.000-07:00

the 60s are over. i know, i don't like it either.

2008-05-08T12:36:00.000-07:00

Okay, I am one of the world's biggest fans of The Kinks, and I love The Who and early Stones, etc etc, The Supremes and many more, but I feel that someone needs to put their foot down now against all these bands that sound like the 60s. With band members no older than 23. I can't handle it, and I'm only 28, so imagine the clear right to outrage my dad's generation has. When I first got past my punk and post-hardcore phase, and discovered to my sheer delight that there were bands popping up everywhere that were Kinks-influenced, I was all for it! There was no going back! Here was melody and nostalgia and just plain good songwriting, etc.

But now, three or four years in, I'm a little tired of it. We need to move on now and stop glorifying our parents' music scenes. I mean, it's even a little embarrassing - they all fought against and rejected the stuff their parents were listening. Are our parents cooler than we are? Our generation needs to find its own sound again, and I'm referring to rock music, I suppose, since we have arguably contributed hiphop and electronic music, which are both genres that in my opinion come in extremes - they consist of either incredibly bad stuff or incredibly good stuff. And yes, we brought the world grunge, but that was still a throw back to punk rock and not totally out of the blue.

Think about The Pixies and how they really didn't sound like anything that had come before them. Think about Kate Bush. Radiohead. At The Drive-In. Bjork. 60s-inspired indie pop and 60s/70s-inspired psychedelic rock needs to take a little rest for awhile. Come on kids, no more retro.

Promising:
St. Vincent
The Mae-shi
Bat For Lashes
Nortec Collective

...I'll get back to this.

immortalized...

2008-05-06T10:28:00.000-07:00

...in my grouchiness on Music Is My Boyfriend. Down with the band name trends!

ouch!

2008-05-06T10:25:00.001-07:00

-Gaping Void's Hugh McCleod

trying to "make it"

2008-02-20T16:28:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I'm too old now, I've come to accept this. And I've given in and gotten a real job (which frankly, has made me a lot happier, not to mention since this new one is 9 to 5 so it actually gives me more time to work on music), but does that really mean I have to quit trying? I have two musician friends who have actually pretty much quit this past year, and I'm appalled, and disheartened, but not enough to let it suck me in. In fact, I don't think I know how to stop. Isn't it supposed to be something that just comes out of you anyway? And I don't just mean the songs; I mean the desire to share them with others. I suppose that as long as I have a band that does occasionally play shows, I might just be okay with that. Given the current state of the music industry, it's impossible to expect any label to show interest unless you're regularly bringing in a crowd, (my feeble cries of that lovely phrase "artist development" would certainly fall on deaf ears nowadays), so there's hardly a point. Besides, in the world of indie rock, if you're regularly bringing in a crowd, you probably don't need a label.

Sure, I may slack off sometimes and work more on writing stories than songs, but I always seem to come back to it. And because I kept looking for musicians all this time, I do now have two who are not only good musicians but also pretty cool guys. And I have my cd I recorded, so I'll be damned if I'm not going to send it out. At the very least, it has bumped up the number of plays on our various profiles. I have an ex-boyfriend who thought that if he got a decent job, he was giving up on trying to make it as a musician (although he would've said Artist, with a capital A, which makes me sick), even though he wasn't even trying very hard to make it as a musician. And I have a friend whose boyfriend is struggling with finally getting a full time job, because he believes it means giving up on being a writer. People, who is telling you these things? Full time does not mean 24/7. You go home and you eat, and you chill for a bit, and then...you work on your music/art/writing. All night if you need to - that's what coffee's for. Then you work on it on the weekend. It's not rocket science.

For me, it even gives that extra sense of urgency. That tension that helps me create. When I worked crappy retail jobs and had my random portions of the day off during the week, I tended to do nothing.

But of course, there's also the fear that if we're comfortable because of our (slightly) fatter paychecks, then we won't have enough misery to write about. I have to laugh at this, because, honestly, we "Artists" couldn't avoid misery if we tried.

my take on "music piracy" (briefly and angrily)

2008-01-28T16:20:00.000-08:00

I personally would never download music illegally off the internet, because a) it's illegal and you can get caught and fined, and b) I feel it's a little conniving. However, I am a musician and I burn cds for my friends. I have friends who are musicians who burn cds for me and their other friends. None of us has a business doing it, burns an excessive amount of them, or makes any money off of it. And yet I have recently been attacked by two people for thinking that burning cds is not the same as illegal downloading, and that by doing it I am stealing music from artists, and helping bring down the music industry. And in return, I say...bullshit.

As a representative of the group who is supposedly hurt the most by burning a cd for someone, (both as an artist and an industry worker), I'd like to announce that there ain't nothing wrong with it. And I'm certainly not alone in that philosophy. Real artists would rather have a new fan hear their songs than not at all, and would appreciate you passing a couple copies off to friends who will probably go to their show with you the next time they're in town. If you're an unknown artist, then you really need the promotion more than anything, and if you're a known artist, then you most likely have enough money as it is. (In the case of the original biggest loud-mouths, Metallica, they obviously do.) So what is the problem exactly? As a former employee of an indie rock label where we all burned cds for each other, I'd like to reiterate (because it's certainly been said before) that digging your feet into the sand and fighting against the digital revolution is what has been bringing the major labels so much trouble. Working within it is helping independents such as Dangerbird Records get a leg up. Is that really so hard to understand? Understanding the fact that kids can and will download your releases for free online, and therefore spending more time and thought on the packaging, artwork, etc to get them to want the actual cd as well, is not really rocket science.

And the ideas we come up with in that regard are only keeping us on our toes, and further away from the stagnation that tends to take over this industry. Fresh ideas, "special edition" concepts, limited vinyl, bonus tracks and cover tunes as incentives... It's just making all those publicists work harder. And well they should. They get paid a lot, just to google their clients' names and send in reports of blog posts. (Not saying none of them work hard. I'm just saying.)

on tastes and snobbery

2008-01-24T10:28:00.000-08:00

I've discovered a new blog I really like, and for once remembered what it was for more than 24 hours. (There is a fog, remember? Sometimes it's hard.) This is Carrie Brownstein of Sleater-Kinney's blog on the new NPR Music site, which I thought was pretty cool on its own, before I even noticed her pic under "Monitor Mix". (Pardon me while I fill out my answers to the Thursday Treasure Hunt...) Anyway, her post called "Eight Heads in a Duffel Bag" yesterday was about how she is really particular and critical of music, but can willingly go and watch absolute fluff when it comes to movies, and eat it up shamelessly. She was pointing out how odd it is that there are some things we take definite stands on and other things we're willing to be force-fed. This reminded me of a conversation I had with my boyfriend the other day. (I hope I can call him that. We haven't discussed it, but "the guy I'm dating" is getting old.)

We were eating in a restaurant that was playing mainstream pop kind of stuff in the background, and he asked me if I'd heard the new songs by Britney Spears, which I had. Then he commented that he made an effort to avoid that kind of stuff like the plague, and I said that I used to do that for sure, but then I relaxed about it and now I don't care so much. It's true - music is what I am probably the most snobbish about or critical of, even now, but I've realized the futility of letting the bad stuff get to you. I have my preference and everyone can have theirs, and that's okay with me. I'm not going to go around saying, "How can you listen to this crap??" Because I'm tired of the snobs, the contemptible snobs. (He's not a snob, by the way, I'm just taking this one step further.) I'm referring to the music lovers who wouldn't set foot in a nightclub that played cheesy music, even if it were a good friend's birthday request. That's just shameful.

Besides, I prefer to try and not let the hype, either negative or positive, or the genre, form my opinion for me. There have been a couple Britney Spears songs that I've liked. I occasionally like something by Kanye West or Nelly even though I really don't like rap music. And this is fine. I'm not going to fight this or be ashamed of this, because then I'm only shortening my list of things to enjoy. I don't have to get up on a cross and spout tirades on the trashiness of most TV shows either, even though there is very little I watch anymore. (I have found a couple I like recently - The Office and Chuck, just so you know.) I watched 27 Dresses and I freely admit it is an absolute chick-flick, but I still enjoyed it. Same with PS. I Love You.

Did I enjoy Charlie Wilson's War and The Kite Runner a lot more? Hell yes, but is it really necessary to point that out? Doesn't that go without saying at this point? Wouldn't it be beating a dead horse to announce that the award-winning type of movies are better than the romantic comedies?? I'm not arrogant enough to think I'm saving the world, or offering it anything revolutionary, when I offer my opinions. I'm only 28 and QUITE A LOT has come and gone before me. That's all.

And that's all, really.

a poem for certain late drives home

2007-11-06T19:49:00.000-08:00

It's this raw spot
in my heart, rubbing
on the drive home
on the dark freeways
The odd feeling of letdown
when nothing was expected anyway.
The time we spend
comparing.
These mis-connections
chemicals and signals
My landscape has no room for you,
my diorama is locked up tight.
We are just along for
the ride.
Feelers
rubbing, failing
making me sore
wisdom being bitterly
absorbed
and the ache is swallowed
cause more of life
must still go on.

how we know vampires & zombies don't exist

2007-10-31T16:19:00.000-07:00

...in the most practical way possible. From Cinema Fiction vs. Physics Reality:

Let us assume that a vampire need feed only once a month. This is certainly a highly conservative assumption, given any Hollywood vampire film. Now, two things happen when a vampire feeds. The human population decreases by one and the vampire population increases by one. Let us suppose that the first vampire appeared in 1600 c.e. It doesn’t really matter what date we choose for the first vampire to appear; it has little bearing on our argument. We list a government Web site in the references (U.S. Census) that provides an estimate of the world population for any given date. For January 1, 1600, we will accept that the global population was 536,870,911.2 In our argument, we had at the same time one vampire.

We will ignore the human mortality and birth rate for the time being and only concentrate on the effects of vampire feeding. On February 1, 1600, one human will have died and a new vampire will have been born. This gives two vampires and 536,870,911–1 humans. The next month, there are two vampires feeding, thus two humans die and two new vampires are born. This gives four vampires and 536,870,911–3 humans. Now on April 1, 1600, there are four vampires feeding and thus we have four human deaths and four new vampires being born. This gives us eight vampires and 536,870,911–7 humans.

By now, the reader has probably caught on to the progression. Each month, the number of vampires doubles, so that, after n months have passed, there are
2323 . . . 32=2n
{
n times
vampires. This sort of progression is known in mathematics as a geometric progression—more specifically, it is a geometric progression with ratio two, since we multiply by two at each step. A geometric progression increases at a tremendous rate, a fact that will become clear shortly. Now, all but one of these vampires were once human, so that the human population is its original population minus the number of vampires excluding the original one. So after n months have passed, there are
536,870,911–2n+1
humans. The vampire population increases geometrically and the human population decreases geometrically.

Table 1 lists the vampire and human population at the beginning of each month over a twenty-nine-month period. Note that by the thirtieth month the table lists a human population of zero. We conclude that if the first vampire appeared on January 1, 1600, humanity would have been wiped out by June of 1602, two and a half years later.

All this may seem artificial, since we ignored other effects on the human population. Mortality due to factors other then vampires would only make the decline in humans more rapid and therefore strengthen our conclusion. The only thing that can weaken our conclusion is the human birthrate. Note that our vampires have gone from one to 536,870,912 in two and a half years. To keep up, the human population would have had to increase by the same amount. The Web site (U.S. Census) mentioned earlier also provides estimated birth rates for any given time. If you go to it, you will notice that the human birthrate never approaches anything near such a tremendous value. In fact, in the long run, for humans to survive in the given scenario, our population would have to at least double each month! This is clearly far beyond the human capacity for reproduction. If we factor in the human birthrate into our discussion, we find that, after a few months, the human birthrate is very small compared to the number of deaths due to vampires. This means that ignoring this factor has a negligibly small impact on our conclusion. In our example, the death of humanity would be prolonged by only one month.

We conclude that vampires cannot exist, since their existence would contradict the existence of human beings. Incidently, the logical proof that we just presented is of a type known as reductio ad absurdum, that is, “reduction to the absurd.” Another philosophical principle related to our argument is the truism given the elaborate title, the anthropic principle. This states that if something is necessary for human existence then it must be true since we do exist. In the present case, the nonexistence of vampires is necessary for human existence. Apparently, whoever devised the vampire legend had failed his college algebra and philosophy courses.

cds i forgot to include...

2007-10-26T15:42:00.000-07:00

...in "keeping it real":

Soundteam - Movie Monster
Bjork - Volta

Thank you.

movie dreams

2007-10-24T15:32:00.000-07:00

Two strange dreams I've had recently:

1. The Alien Jewelry

A woman had just had a baby and something was extremely wrong with it, like it was actually an alien. So everyone was keeping it away from her; they took it before she even got to see it. And her family was upset about the whole thing and wouldn't even speak of it (I only ever saw the dad but there were lots of people around all the time, who were involved.) Then at some point, I suddenly became the woman and I was furious with everyone for keeping my baby from me. And right around the same time, the baby turned into a box - this mysterious box that had things inside it that I couldn't see, because they were supposed to be this horrible thing.

So there was this big dinner scene, with everyone there, and I was angry at my father for all of this, so I slipped away, determined to see what was in the box. I opened it and it turned out to be full of this strange, weirdly beautiful jewelry and hair ornaments!! I can only remember the earrings, which were dangly and made of bones, and these hair clips that were huge, flat poofs of brilliant green feathers, like peacock feathers that didn't stick up but laid flat on your head. I was very certain that was from another world. I was so amazed, and then the father was there, looking afraid, as if I would hate all of it. I said, "It's beautiful!! Why would you think I would hate it?" And he was sorry and said, "I just didn't know...I was scared..."

And we both cried, and everybody celebrated the fact that it was all okay. I mean, seriously, it was like a huge relief for the whole land or something. So freaking weird. I woke up with a very clear image of the jewelry in my head and like this amazement that everyone had thought I would hate something, and be scared of it, but in the end I loved it. Hmm.

I think it's so bizarre that it went from being an alien baby to alien jewelry.

2: The Dark Prophecy

Me and several other people were trying to help this little blond girl who was supposed to fulfill some kind of destiny. We were all trying to figure out what she was supposed to do, or how she was supposed to do it. It was kind of like she was supposed to be the reincarnation of someone who had died, and events that happened then were going to be repeated. But somewhere only the way, I realized that the destiny was bad, that the original girl who had died had actually killed a lot of people. So I was kind of like, "But um, hey guys? Should we really be doing this?"

But then it was like I forgot about it, or it was just in the back of my head and I never told the others. I'm not sure. The girl was really sad and frustrated, until she suddenly saw this sign that had flashing, blurry letters, (it was some kind of ad), and then she froze like she'd been hypnotized. Her eyes went blank and she started running. We all followed her to this gravestone in a cemetery, where she stared at the engraving. The letters were all blurry just like the sign. Then suddenly she pulled out a shotgun and started firing at the sky! I started screaming, "I knew it! I knew this was bad!"

And then somehow one of the bullets hit her brother and he fell into the water near us, and slowly sank to the bottom, blood billowing up to the surface as he went. It was a very clear image, and we were all so horrified and sad. Then I woke up. But I wasn't scared or sad; it was more like I had just been watching a really riveting movie.

If only I could get these things to make a little more sense, I could turn them into really awesome stories or screenplays.

Hmm.

things that make me happy lately

2007-10-12T09:54:00.000-07:00

1. posting on LAist or working on my screenplay, and feeling like i'm a writer

2. looking at my signed Band of Horses' cd

3. listening to Beirut's "Elephant Gun" or "Sunday Smile"

4. going out to lunch on the weekends with a friend

5. practicing with my guitarists and hearing my songs fleshed out live

6. watching movies on my couch with the cat

7. getting random text messages from my friend in Prague

8. being invited to go see bands with friends

9. thinking about Thanksgiving and Christmas coming up, when my family will all be together (seems like it's been awhile)

keeping it real

2007-09-19T12:06:00.000-07:00

I don't actually use that expression but I just picked it as a category to file my last LAist post in, and it made me laugh. It reminds me of something you would say in a yearbook signature: "Stay sweet! Keep it real!" Anyway, I have finished the screenplay I've been posting excerpts from! :D The first draft, that is. My friend who reviews scripts for a screenplay competition read it and gave me some pointers as far as tightening up the plot arc, and establishing a few things better in the beginning, so that they make sense when they come up later. Nothing I didn't actually suspect already, lol. I have issues with plot structure; it's why I normally write short stories.

This is a cool article on Thurston Moore:
http://www.villagevoice.com/music/0738,odonnell,77824,22.html
I've never been a big Sonic Youth fan (I listened to more punk in high school, so I only heard their singles on the radio), but everything I've ever read about Thurston makes me think he's such a cool guy. So I need to get "Daydream Nation", eh? That I will. Here is a list of what I want for Christmas:

Band of Horses's Cease To Begin
St. Vincent's Marry Me
Interpol's Our Love To Admire
Sonic Youth's Daydream Nation
The Pixies' Surfer Rosa
Feist's The Reminder
Beirut's The Flying Club Cup
Carina Round's Slow Motion Addict
Earlimart's Mentor Dementor

Cheers!

is the guitar magic?

2007-07-16T19:10:00.000-07:00

Next installment! I'll have you know I have 77 pages now. :)

INT. PETER'S APARTMENT -- DAY

Peter sits at his laptop on a messy desk in a somewhat bleak, messy living room, The Beatles White Album playing on a record player on the floor near his feet.

A ROOMMATE (20's), heroine-chic thin with Strokes hair, saunters through the room with a bowl of cereal, as a cell phone rings.

Peter lifts some papers on the desk and picks up his phone.

PETER
Greta? Where are you?

GRETA
Well, I'm riding out to Albuquerque.

PETER
Nice. I'm assuming you're with the right band now and no longer hitching?

GRETA
Actually, it's something of a rescue mission now.

PETER
(delighted)
Did someone get kidnapped?

GRETA
No, just Sylus's guitar. Christian won't give it back so we're following them to Albuquerque, to take a stand with Albus, I think, and force him to give it up.

Peter is speechless, for once in his life.

GRETA
Hello?

PETER
...Please tell me you get some of that on tape. How long does your camera film for?

GRETA
About 30 seconds. You think you could call Willows Green and talk to that guy Maxwell about it?

PETER
So this is serious? Christian is trying to run off with Sylus's guitar? What, did they ditch you at Modified?

GRETA
Yes!

Peter sits up straight, eyes shining.

PETER
No fucking way.

GRETA
(annoyed)
Yes, fucking way. They said we were late and they couldn't wait for us, even though Albus stayed the night!

PETER
Greta! This is a story for the blog if I ever heard one! I mean, forget the blog, I could pitch this to Under The Radar!

GRETA
Peter, please call the label.

PETER
Got it, got it. Keep me posted!

GRETA
(as afterthought)
...Did my car get home safe?

PETER
(distracted, typing)
It's home, but I think some kind soul actually shot it.

GRETA
...Thanks.

INT. DINER - NEW MEXICO -- AFTERNOON

Long Wolf and Todd all sit at a large booth, ordering breakfast.

NEIL
What is this lingonberry shit people put on pancakes?

JOHN
It's Swedish.

NEIL
(disdainfully)
Oh well, you would know.

JOHN
My family's from Switzerland, ass.

Todd chokes and Anthony and Christian burst out laughing. Neil looks annoyed at first, but then smirks.

NEIL
Does it really matter?

CHRISTIAN
You amaze us with your skills at geography, Neil, along with everything else.

NEIL
Something like your antics on the stolen guitar last night.

Christian drops his menu on the table, unconcerned.

CHRISTIAN
Nothing wrong with a little experimentation.

NEIL
Playing a bit too much Guitar Hero these days?

CHRISTIAN
(irritated)
Maybe I'm just outgrowing you, musically.

ANTHONY
Yeah right.

Christian glares at him and the others look uncomfortable. Todd clears his throat and starts messing with his Blackberry phone.

CHRISTIAN
(shortly)
I meant Neil.

ANTHONY
(grins)
It was good anyway, I liked it.

JOHN
You gonna give the guitar back this time, Christian, or drag The Lake out to Texas?
(before he replies)
I'm all for messing around, but they do have our photographer.

CHRISTIAN
...They do, don't they? How did that end up happening again?

TODD
(staring at his phone)
Hey! Hey, dudes, check this out!

ANTHONY
What?

TODD
I just checked out that aggregator, Elbo, and the blogs are all buzzing about the "blistering guitar" last night! "So Much Silence" was at the show and shot some youtube footage. They're all reposting it!

JOHN
Nice!

CHRISTIAN
What are they saying?

TODD
"Lead guitarist Christian Waden deigned to speak the crowd this time, a shrewd move. He revealed some hidden chops on 'Twigs' and 'Light is Never Heavy'... Loved them before, but watch this clip from the Modified show..."

CHRISTIAN
(happily)
Let's watch it.

TODD
Nah, I can't get media to load on this thing. Waiting for that iPhone, dudes.

Neil sits back thoughtfully and undoes his scarf, as the WAITRESS approaches them with plates.

NEIL
(slowly)
...So Christian plays better on The Lake's Tele.

The guys all look at each other, Christian a bit sheepish.

CHRISTIAN
It's not like it's magic or anything. It's still me.

The Waitress sets their food down in front of them. Todd's Blackberry suddenly rings and he snatches it up.

TODD
Yeah? Hey, Maxwell, what's up?

JOHN
It's Maxie...

NEIL
I'm sure he saw the blogs.

TODD
Uh huh... Oh. Uh huh...

Christian watches him carefully and the other guys dig into their food.

TODD
Yeah. Yeah, he wants to keep playing it.

The guys all look up again. Christian looks worried.

JOHN
The Lake called the label?!

TODD
Uh huh, well, I think I should show you something, Max. Go online, and go to elbo.ws...

Christian smiles, relaxes, and starts to eat.

EXT. DESERT-LIKE HIGHWAY -- DAY

AERIAL SHOT of The Lake's bus driving along, Deerhoof's "Green Cosmos" playing.

GRETA
So why did you guys call yourselves The Lake?

MICAH
Why did you call yourselves The Lake?

INT. THE LAKE VAN -- CONTINUOUS

Greta laughs at Micah, who grins next to her in the backseat. Sylus is driving this time with Tim in the passenger seat.

TIM
You'll have to excuse him, he's not housebroken.

GRETA
We named ourselves after the Silver Lake reservior, thank you very much.

MICAH
Oh. Well, we named ourselves after... Sylus, why the hell did we pick that one again?

SYLUS
My family used to go fishing at this little lake on the edge of my grandparents' land. It was good times.

TIM
(magic of fact)
Sylus is very nostalgic.

SYLUS
(grinning)
I'm sure she's figured that out. None of us would be here if I wasn't...

GRETA
Better to be named after a real lake than a reservoir, I guess. Anne came up with it - she lives right near it.

SYLUS
How many people write for the blog?

GRETA
Four of us. That guy Peter you met and Simon and Anne, who both write for LAist sometimes, and LA Alternative. Peter doesn't really do much else... I think he lives on ramen and cereal.

TIM
He seemed like a nervous little guy...

GRETA
He's going to turn this whole trip into a big story. I should probably take some pictures to chronicle our "adventures".

TIM
A big story for the blog? You're going to write about it?

GRETA
Not just the blog, I guess. He's gonna pitch it to Filter or Pitchfork or something.

SYLUS, TIM
Really??!

GRETA
(startled)
I mean, they might not go for it...

TIM
But that's great! Even if no one picks it up, they'll still have heard of us.

GRETA
That's true. Yeah, actually...
(light dawning)
Actually, this is a good thing.
(slowly)
I mean..this might even be the best thing that could possibly happen...

TIM
We're "creating awareness".

GRETA
Even for me. I'd get photo credit.

SYLUS
No shit! That's true.

MICAH
So that's why this happened?? Is this Fate?

SYLUS
No, it happened because you gave away my damn guitar.

MICAH
But still, I'm totally and completely responsible if we get signed over this.

TIM
Right, you and Christian.

Sylus glances at Greta in the rearview mirror, and gives her a small, hopeful smile. She smiles back.

plan b

2007-07-05T18:18:00.000-07:00

LATER

The Lake van turns down Roosevelt street and pulls into the parking lot at Modified. The Long Wolf bus is not there.

Tim shuts off the engine and they all look out through the windows, obviously sleepy.

GRETA
What time is it?

Micah looks at his watch and yawns.

MICAH
Almost 2.
(beat)
They probably left.

SYLUS
Damn.

He opens the door and climbs out. The other three watch as he walks up to the venue and goes inside.

MICAH
What do we do now?

TIM
(to Greta)
You think they're at a motel somewhere?

GRETA
(slowly)
No, they gotta be at The Launchpad the day after the tomorrow. In Albuquerque.

MICAH
Shit, we gotta go to Albuquerque now?

TIM
Wait, here he comes.

Sylus walks back across the parking lot, his head down, hands in his pockets. He gets back into the passenger seat and sits quietly for a second.

SYLUS
Bartender says they took off right after the show. Just loaded up and left.

Tim looks stunned.

TIM
They knew we were coming...?

Sylus says nothing.

MICAH
They did, right?

SYLUS
(flatly)
He said people kept saying Christian was on fire. He played better than he ever does.

GRETA
Really?

TIM
(to Sylus, sharp)
Give me your phone. I don't have reception.

Sylus hands him his cell phone and Tim jumps out of the car, marching off with the phone to his ear.

MICAH
...Is he mad? I've never seen him mad.

Sylus puts his elbow up on the window sill and rests his chin in his hand.

GRETA
You don't think they did this on purpose?

SYLUS
I don't know. I have a feeling.

They all watch Tim outside, now gesturing as he speaks into the phone. Greta's phone suddenly lets out a little melody and they all jump.

GRETA
Oh, sorry, it's a text message.

She digs out her phone and looks at it.

INSERT - CELL PHONE SCREEN

PETER

"Having the time of your life yet?"

Greta frowns. Tim opens the car door and gets back in with a sigh.

TIM
(pissed)
So here's the story. First I got voicemail. Then I called back twice, back to back, and that guy Todd finally answered. He wasn't too friendly. He said we were late and they didn't want to get behind schedule, so they had to take off.
(beat)
He said we could meet them in Albuquerque.

MICAH
What?!

TIM
I told him we picked up Greta and we hit traffic and we all had jobs and had to get back to work. Didn't make much of an impression. And then I said didn't that asshole want his own guitar back?? And he said...

He eyes Sylus carefully.

TIM
He said 'No, not really.'

There is a slight pause as this sinks in.

GRETA
(abruptly)
He can't steal your guitar! We can call the label. We can make them ship it to you.
(beat)
What about Albus? You guys can call them, right?

MICAH
What could they do about it? I mean, they're not gonna fight the guy.

SYLUS
Actually, Scott might.
(to Tim)
Remember when he fought that kid with the headgear?

Tim starts to laugh. Sylus abruptly bursts into laughter too, both of them sounding exhausted. Micah and Greta look at each other, not finding anything funny.

The other two carry on for several seconds, getting louder, Sylus banging his arm against the window and Tim wiping at his eyes.

SYLUS
The biggest buzz band out there, the Willows Green band, the next fucking indie band to show up on Letterman, man - I bet you - just fuckin' stole my granddad's fuckin' guitar...

He knocks the van door open and leans his head out, letting out a hysterical-sounding WHOOP OF LAUGHTER. Tim thumps the dashboard and cackles, watching him. Greta starts to smile a bit.

Micah sighs, annoyed.

MICAH
Yeah, it's hilarious. Is anybody else really tired, at all? Can we find a place to sleep now?

Tim nods back at him and starts winding down, wiping his eyes again.

TIM
Let's find a motel.

GRETA
(quietly)
...It's nice to know they're concerned about me being there to take pictures.

Sylus stops laughing and sniffs loudly. He sighs, as Tim starts the van's engine.

SYLUS
Yeah, I think we all got screwed here.

Tim steers the van around and heads out of the parking lot. Greta looks back down at her phone and types in a reply to Peter's text:

INSERT - CELL PHONE SCREEN

"Time of life waylaid for now. Fill you in later."

EXT. MOTEL SIX - PHOENIX -- NIGHT

The Lake van pulls into the parking lot, the Motel Six sign flashing above them.

INT. MOTEL ROOM -- LATER

Sylus and Micah sleep in one double bed, Tim and Greta in the other, all four fully dressed. Tim snores a deep rumbling snore.

Sylus sits up slowly and peers out into the dark room. He picks up his phone and a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the nightstand between the beds, and walks outside.

EXT. MOTEL ROOM -- VERY EARLY MORNING

Sylus stands in the grass in front of their motel room door, looking quite disheveled, and smokes a cigarette. He pulls out his cell phone. It rings a long while.

SCOTT
(sleepy, gruff voice)
...Sylus?

SYLUS
Hey Scott. Sorry to wake you up, man, are you still in Phoenix?

SCOTT
...Yeah, yeah, what's goin' on?

SYLUS
Well, it's kind of weird, I guess... Did you hear about Christian taking my guitar at Spaceland?

SCOTT
Your guitar? No, is that what he was playin' last night? I saw he had a Tele.

SYLUS
Yeah, he took it by accident. I think.

SCOTT
Oh shit, wait, that's your old Tele? The one you always played?

Sylus blows some smoke in a huff.

SYLUS
Yep.

SCOTT
No way. Why'nt you come get it last night?

SYLUS
I did. We're all here, man, in Phoenix. We got here late cause we got lost and we hit some kind of accident, and then they took off, man, they didn't wait for us.

SCOTT
Yeah, they left right afterwards! I told 'em hell no, we were all wasted... We ain't got no driver.
(beat)
So what are you doin', man? You coming out to Albuquerque? You should have 'em ship that shit.

SYLUS
I don't think he would. I got his guitar, he doesn't want it shipped, and he likes mine. I think they ditched us on purpose to keep my guitar.

Scott laughs hoarsely and starts coughing on the other end.

SCOTT
That fucker's got another Gibson and a Martin at home, he don't want your Tele, man.

SYLUS
(intently)
Did you see him play last night?

SCOTT
Yeah, man, he was on fuckin' fire... He was wailing on all these riffs, for some reason...
(light dawns)
Oh shit.

SYLUS
(grins slightly)
My granddad always said it's magic. I never miss a note.

SCOTT
Man, you get your ass to Albuquerque and I'll make sure he sticks around. Can't promise much more'n that though.

He starts coughing again and Sylus smiles.

SYLUS
Thanks Scott. See you there.

SCOTT
Right on.

Scott hangs up and Sylus puts his phone in his pocket. He turns around to see Greta stepping out of the doorway, blinking in the oncoming daylight.

Her dead straight, white-blond hair is down for once and she has a blanket around her. Sylus stares, struck by how pretty she looks.

GRETA
We're making coffee if you want some.

SYLUS
Definitely.
(shyly)
Your hair is pretty.

GRETA
(surprised)
...Thanks. I didn't know you smoked.

SYLUS
Nah, only sometimes. If I'm down.

He drops the end of the cigarette and steps on it.

GRETA
Is it cause your grandfather's not around anymore?

SYLUS
Well, kind of. He was the only other musician in the family.
(beat)
But it's more like, he's the only one who believed in me.

Greta smiles.

GRETA
My parents wanted me and my brother to be doctors.

Micah opens the door and steps out, stretching dramatically.

SYLUS
(to Greta)
What does your brother do?

GRETA
Hair.

Sylus laughs and Micah looks at the two of them, expectantly.

MICAH
So what's the plan?

long wolf pulls a fast one

2007-05-16T18:30:00.000-07:00

How's that for a title? ;)

LATER

The Lake van turns down Roosevelt street and pulls into the parking lot at Modified. The Long Wolf bus is not there.

Tim shuts off the engine and they all look out through the windows, obviously sleepy.

GRETA
What time is it?

Micah looks at his watch and yawns.

MICAH
Almost 2.
(beat)
They probably left.

SYLUS
Damn.

He opens the door and climbs out. The other three watch as he walks up to the venue and goes inside.

MICAH
What do we do now?

TIM
(to Greta)
You think they're at a motel somewhere?

GRETA
(slowly)
No, they gotta be at The Launchpad the day after the tomorrow. In Albuquerque.

MICAH
Shit, we gotta go to Albuquerque now?

TIM
Wait, here he comes.

Sylus walks back across the parking lot, his head down, hands in his pockets. He gets back into the passenger seat and sits quietly for a second.

SYLUS
Bartender says they took off right after the show. Just loaded up and left.

Tim looks stunned.

TIM
They knew we were coming...?

Sylus says nothing.

MICAH
They did, right?

SYLUS
(flatly)
He said people kept saying Christian was on fire. He played better than he ever does.

GRETA
Really?

TIM
(to Sylus, sharp)
Give me your phone. I don't have reception.

Sylus hands him his cell phone and Tim jumps out of the car, marching off with the phone to his ear.

MICAH
...Is he mad? I've never seen him mad.

Sylus puts his elbow up on the window sill and rests his chin in his hand.

GRETA
You don't think they did this on purpose?

SYLUS
I don't know. I have a feeling.

They all watch Tim outside, now gesturing as he speaks into the phone. Greta's phone suddenly lets out a little melody and they all jump.

GRETA
Oh, sorry, it's a text message.

She digs out her phone and looks at it.

INSERT - CELL PHONE SCREEN

PETER

"Having the time of your life yet?"

Greta frowns. Tim opens the car door and gets back in with a sigh.

TIM
(pissed)
So here's the story. First I got voicemail. Then I called back twice, back to back, and that guy Todd finally answered. He wasn't too friendly. He said we were late and they didn't want to get behind schedule, so they had to take off.
(beat)
He said we could meet them in Albuquerque.

MICAH
What?!

TIM
I told him we picked up Greta and we hit traffic and we all had jobs and had to get back to work. Didn't make much of an impression. And then I said didn't that asshole want his own guitar back?? And he said...

He eyes Sylus carefully.

TIM
He said 'No, not really.'

There is a slight pause as this sinks in.

GRETA
(abruptly)
He can't steal your guitar! We can call the label. We can make them ship it to you.
(beat)
What about Albus? You guys can call them, right?

MICAH
What could they do about it? I mean, they're not gonna fight the guy.

SYLUS
Actually, Scott might.
(to Tim)
Remember when he fought that kid with the headgear?

Tim starts to laugh. Sylus abruptly bursts into laughter too, both of them sounding exhausted. Micah and Greta look at each other, not finding anything funny.

The other two carry on for several seconds, getting louder, Sylus banging his arm against the window and Tim wiping at his eyes.

SYLUS
The biggest buzz band out there, the Willows Green band, the next fucking indie band to show up on Letterman, man - I bet you - just fuckin' stole my granddad's fuckin' guitar...

He knocks the van door open and leans his head out, letting out a hysterical-sounding WHOOP OF LAUGHTER. Tim thumps the dashboard and cackles, watching him. Greta starts to smile a bit.

Micah sighs, annoyed.

MICAH
Yeah, it's hilarious. Is anybody else really tired, at all? Can we find a place to sleep now?

Tim nods back at him and starts winding down, wiping his eyes again.

TIM
Let's find a motel.

GRETA
(quietly)
...It's nice to know they're concerned about me being there to take pictures.

Sylus stops laughing and sniffs loudly. He sighs, as Tim starts the van's engine.

SYLUS
Yeah, I think we all got screwed here.

Tim steers the van around and heads out of the parking lot. Greta looks back down at her phone and types in a reply to Peter's text:

INSERT - CELL PHONE SCREEN

"Time of life waylaid for now. Fill you in later."

EXT. MOTEL SIX - PHOENIX -- NIGHT

The Lake van pulls into the parking lot, the Motel Six sign flashing above them.

INT. MOTEL ROOM -- LATER

Sylus and Micah sleep in one double bed, Tim and Greta in the other, all four fully dressed. Tim snores a deep rumbling snore.

Sylus sits up slowly and peers out into the dark room. He picks up his phone and a crumpled pack of cigarettes from the nightstand between the beds, and walks outside.

EXT. MOTEL ROOM -- VERY EARLY MORNING

Sylus stands in the grass in front of their motel room door, looking quite disheveled, and smokes a cigarette. He pulls out his cell phone. It rings a long while.

SCOTT
(sleepy, gruff voice)
...Sylus?

SYLUS
Hey Scott. Sorry to wake you up, man, are you still in Phoenix?

SCOTT
...Yeah, yeah, what's goin' on?

SYLUS
Well, it's kind of weird, I guess... Did you hear about Christian taking my guitar at Spaceland?

SCOTT
Your guitar? No, is that what he was playin' last night? I saw he had a Tele.

SYLUS
Yeah, he took it by accident. I think.

SCOTT
Oh shit, wait, that's your old Tele? The one you always played?

Sylus blows some smoke in a huff.

SYLUS
Yep.

SCOTT
No way. Why'nt you come get it last night?

SYLUS
I did. We're all here, man, in Phoenix. We got here late cause we got lost and we hit some kind of accident, and then they took off, man, they didn't wait for us.

SCOTT
Yeah, they left right afterwards! I told 'em hell no, we were all wasted... We ain't got no driver.
(beat)
So what are you doin', man? You coming out to Albuquerque? You should have 'em ship that shit.

SYLUS
I don't think he would. I got his guitar, he doesn't want it shipped, and he likes mine. I think they ditched us on purpose to keep my guitar.

Scott laughs hoarsely and starts coughing on the other end.

SCOTT
That fucker's got another Gibson and a Martin at home, he don't want your Tele, man.

SYLUS
(intently)
Did you see him play last night?

SCOTT
Yeah, man, he was on fuckin' fire... He was wailing on all these riffs, for some reason...
(light dawns)
Oh shit.

SYLUS
(grins slightly)
My granddad always said it's magic. I never miss a note.

SCOTT
Man, you get your ass to Albuquerque and I'll make sure he sticks around. Can't promise much more'n that though.

He starts coughing again and Sylus smiles.

SYLUS
Thanks Scott. See you there.

SCOTT
Right on.

Scott hangs up and Sylus puts his phone in his pocket. He turns around to see Greta stepping out of the doorway, blinking in the oncoming daylight.

Her dead straight, white-blond hair is down for once and she has a blanket around her. Sylus stares, struck by how pretty she looks.

GRETA
We're making coffee if you want some.

SYLUS
Definitely.
(shyly)
Your hair is pretty.

GRETA
(surprised)
...Thanks. I didn't know you smoked.

SYLUS
Nah, only sometimes. If I'm down.

He drops the end of the cigarette and steps on it.

GRETA
Is it cause your grandfather's not around anymore?

SYLUS
Well, kind of. He was the only other musician in the family.
(beat)
But it's more like, he's the only one who believed in me.

Greta smiles.

GRETA
My parents wanted me and my brother to be doctors.

Micah opens the door and steps out, stretching dramatically.

SYLUS
(to Greta)
What does your brother do?

GRETA
Hair.

Sylus laughs and Micah looks at the two of them, expectantly.

MICAH
So what's the plan?

INT. PETER'S APARTMENT -- DAY

Peter sits at his laptop on a messy desk in a somewhat bleak, messy living room, The Beatles White Album playing on a record player on the floor near his feet.

A ROOMMATE (20's), heroine-chic thin with Strokes hair, saunters through the room with a bowl of cereal, as a cell phone rings.

Peter lifts some papers on the desk and picks up his phone.

PETER
Greta? Where are you?

GRETA
Well, I'm riding out to Albuquerque.

PETER
Nice. I'm assuming you're with the right band now and no longer hitching?

GRETA
Actually, it's something of a rescue mission now.

PETER
(delighted)
Did someone get kidnapped?

GRETA
No, just Sylus's guitar. Christian won't give it back so we're following them to Albuquerque, to take a stand with Albus, I think, and force him to give it up.

Peter is speechless, for once in his life.

GRETA
Hello?

PETER
...Please tell me you get some of that on tape. How long does your camera film for?

GRETA
About 30 seconds. You think you could call Willows Green and talk to that guy Maxwell about it?

PETER
So this is serious? Christian is trying to run off with Sylus's guitar? What, did they ditch you at Modified?

GRETA
Yes!

Peter sits up straight, eyes shining.

PETER
No fucking way.

GRETA
(annoyed)
Yes, fucking way. They said we were late and they couldn't wait for us, even though Albus stayed the night!

PETER
Greta! This is a story for the blog if I ever heard one! I mean, forget the blog, I could pitch this to Under The Radar!

GRETA
Peter, please call the label.

PETER
Got it, got it. Keep me posted!

GRETA
(as afterthought)
...Did my car get home safe?

PETER
(distracted, typing)
It's home, but I think some kind soul actually shot it.

GRETA
...Thanks.

a chase begins

2007-04-13T13:51:00.000-07:00

I got behind on posting the segments, but I did actually write new stuff recently, so there.

EXT. DESERT-LIKE HIGHWAY -- DAY

Greta drives along in a beat-up, old VW GOLF. She has an iPod hooked up to the tape deck and is bopping her head along to The Shins. The engine sounds like it is wheezing just a little.

The windshield wipers abruptly turn on and she jumps, then switches them off. Her cell phone RINGS in its holder on the dash and she turns down the radio.

GRETA
(into phone)
So far, so good.

PETER
Really? Where are you?

GRETA
I don't know.

PETER
Oh that's good.

GRETA
I think I'm near Palm Springs.

PETER
Have the wipers started doing that thing?

GRETA
(quickly)
Nope.

PETER
All right, so guess what I heard? Anne knows the bartender at Spaceland and apparently, he said Long Wolf took off with one of The Lake's guitars.

GRETA
No way! Sylus's guitar?

PETER
(a bit bitter)
Oh, Sylus's guitar? What, are we best friends with them too now?

GRETA
Knock it off.

The car lurches and Greta grips the wheel, worried.

PETER
Well, your pal Sylus has Christian's guitar so they basically swapped. It's a great story! I was going to give it to Simon though cause I have to work on my column -

The engine makes a grinding sound and the car lurches again.

GRETA
Peter!

PETER
What? I thought you said yes to the column!

GRETA
No, the car!

Greta drops the phone and steers the car off the road, as cars HONK behind her. The VW lurches one more time and then splutters. Peter's voice is distant from the phone on the seat.

PETER
Uh oh.

GRETA
Damn!

She turns off the car and slams her fist on the dash.

PETER
Oh well... I guess that's that then.

GRETA
Damn.

She props her elbow on the window ledge and grabs the phone.

GRETA
What the hell was I thinking? Why did I think I could do this?

PETER
You had to try! Anyone would've tried.
(beat)
Sorry I don't have a car to lend. Captain of the red line and all...

GRETA
That's okay. You can keep me company while I wait for the tow truck. I'll call you right back.

She starts digging in her purse for her wallet.

PETER
Right, glad to be the friend with obvious time to spare.

INT. MODIFIED ARTS - PHOENIX -- EVENING

Long Wolf are sound checking, casting dark shadows on the brick wall behind the stage. Members of Albus stand in front of the stage, watching.

John is having trouble with his keyboards and is complaining to the SOUND GUY (30s), with glasses, beard, and a beanie.

Christian slips Sylus's guitar strap over his shoulder and fiddles with his amp. He strums a little bit and cocks his head, listening. He picks it up and turns it to face him, studying it a second.

Neil fixes his scarf and glances over at Christian.

NEIL
Looks good on you.

Christian smirks and plays a nice little riff.

INT. TOW TRUCK - DESERT-LIKE HIGHWAY -- EVENING

Greta sits in the passenger seat, disgruntled. The heavy set DRIVER bobs his head to Van Halen's "Ain't Talking Bout Love" on the stereo. He nods at Greta, singing along, and she smiles politely.

DRIVER
What's the matter, kid, you don't like music?

She rolls her eyes.

DRIVER
What? Come on! It's Van Halen.

GRETA
Exactly.

DRIVER
(sighs)
Man, some people just don't like music.

GRETA
I hate to say it, but I really have to pee. Do you think we could stop?

The Driver shakes his head and signals to change lanes.

DRIVER
I tell you, I don't know what to say to those people.

GRETA
We make good librarians.

EXT. GAS STATIONS -- CONTINUOUS

The tow truck pulls into the lot and Greta slides out, a long drop to the ground. She walks up to the food mart and sees a line of women, standing in front of the one bathroom.

GRETA
...Damn.

She stands there, considering, and then turns around to walk back out. She walks smack into Sylus, coming in.

SYLUS
Sorry!

He stops and looks down at her, under a faded baseball cap. She stares up at him.

GRETA
Hey!

SYLUS
Hey! What are you doing here?

GRETA
My car broke down!

SYLUS
Christian has my guitar!

GRETA
I know!

They both stop and look confused. Sylus abruptly takes his hat off.

SYLUS
Wait, how do you know?

GRETA
My friend Peter called me, right before I broke down.
(beat)
He knows everything. Are you going to Phoenix to get it?

SYLUS
Yeah, I -
(he moves aside to let people pass)
I got the guys to go out there with me. It's my granddad's guitar, I gotta get it back.

GRETA
Wow. Yeah, you should get it before they get too far away.

SYLUS
Yeah. Is that your tow truck out there?

GRETA
(grimly)
...It's mine for the next hour or so. I think my car's fnally had it.

Micah opens the door behind them and pokes Sylus in the arm.

MICAH
Hey, get Tim some pretzels.
(notices Greta)
Oh, hi.
(beat)
Wait, is Long Wolf here?

SYLUS
(annoyed)
No, Micah. She got stranded.

MICAH
(to Greta)
Oh, you want to ride with us? Hang on, I gotta take a pis- I mean, use the bathroom, I'll be back.

He hurries off and Greta and Sylus look back at each other, not even having considered it.

SYLUS
I mean, yeah, why don't you ride with us? I'm sure Long Wolf'll take you in their van the rest of the way.

GRETA
I guess I could... if you don't mind? I can have a friend meet the tow truck at my house.

SYLUS
(smiles shyly)
Cool. We'll wait for you, it's the white van over at the pump. I gotta piss too.

He puts his hat back on and heads for the bathroom. Greta grins and shoves open the door.

EXT. HIGHWAY -- NIGHT

Greta rides in the back with Micah, who is asleep against the window, with Tim and Sylus up front again. Patsy Cline's Greatest Hits are now floating out from the tape deck and everyone looks tired but hopeful.

GRETA
What do you guys do back home?

SYLUS
(sleepy)
I do some construction with my dad. He wants me to do a whole lot more of it...

TIM
My wife and I run a nursery. Plants, that is, not little buggers.

Greta smiles.

TIM
And Micah works at his girlfriend's hardware shop.

Sylus snickers.

GRETA
What?

TIM
Inside joke.

SYLUS
(to Greta)
What do you do?

GRETA
I'm a bartender.

SYLUS
Oh yeah? That must be kind of fun.

GRETA
...It's not as glamorous as it sounds. I think I'm losing my hearing. On the up side, I'm learning to read lips.

TIM
But the music blog...that's obviously a bit glamorous. You're out on tour with Long Wolf, right?
(beat)
Or actually, just The Lake at the moment, but it'll get more exciting.

GRETA
Yeah, it's really taking off. I'm still surprised... It started with just me and my friend Peter, and now we have 4 bloggers, and everyone knows us.

SYLUS
You're indie kid stars.

GRETA
Hmm. Yeah, sometimes it's a pain in the ass. Sometimes I get tired of all the hipsters.

TIM
But you bloggers created a whole new thing! It's kind of revolutionary. There's no MTV or radio stations involved, just mp3s and live shows.

Greta looks thoughtful and glances at Micah, snoring lightly beside her.

GRETA
Yeah, but is it really that big a deal? I mean, your average person out there still has no idea who any of these bands even are. They've never even heard of a music blog.

SYLUS
Yeah, your average person just buys cds from Walmart. Pop, rap metal, and country.

GRETA
None of these guys will ever even get to quit their dayjobs, I bet.

Sylus looks depressed.

GRETA
And most of the indie kids want to keep it that way. So they can keep seeing their favorite bands in small venues.
(beat)
I can understand that, but it's a really small circle.

SYLUS
(quietly)
...It's a trap.

Tim looks at him, surprised, and Greta appears to regret bringing it up.

GRETA
Doesn't really matter. It's still just people making music because they love it, right?

TIM
That's the thing.

He spots their exit up ahead and signals to change lanes.

TIM
That is the thing right there.

EXT. MODIFIED ARTS - PHOENIX -- MOMENTS LATER

Long Wolf are playing to a packed house, Christian riffing happily on Sylus's guitar. He plays with more enthusiasm than at Spaceland, losing the jaded attitude a bit. Neil and John keep turning to glance at him, surprised.

EXT. STREET - PHOENIX -- CONTINUOUS

Tim steers the van around a corner and then brakes, stopping before a long line of traffic ahead of them, ambulance lights in the distance.

TIM
Uh oh.

SYLUS
Woah, what is this?

A DRIVER two cars ahead gets out of his car and cranes his neck to see what the hold-up is.

GRETA
Is this the only way to go?

TIM
(to Sylus)
Get the map.

Sylus turns and yells at Micah.

SYLUS
Micah! Wake up, get the map!

Greta pulls it off Micah's lap and he splutters awake.

MICAH
What? What time is it?

GRETA
Are we on 7th St?

TIM
No, I went the wrong way off the exit. I'm trying to get to 7th.

GRETA
Oh.

SYLUS
Well, what street are we on?

TIM
(scratches his head)
I don't actually know.

SYLUS
For god's sake, I'm driving from now on.

TIM
Good, cause I'm damn tired.

Micah peers out the window, yawning, at a distant street sign. The traffic hasn't moved at all.

MICAH
We're on Portland St.

GRETA
(reading map)
Okay, which direction are we headed?

TIM
Um, east?

Greta frowns and holds the map closer to her face.

TIM
I guess we'll find out for sure when we reach the next cross street.

Sylus sighs and puts his feet up across the dash.

SYLUS
What time do you think Long Wolf'll be done?

EXT. MODIFIED ARTS - PHOENIX -- LATER

Anthony loads up his drums into the side of the bus, John coming up behind him with his keyboard stand.

ANTHONY
Did you see Christian rocking out?

JOHN
He should buy that thing off the guy.

Neil walks up to them, smoking a cigarette.

NEIL
(coolly)
What does he think he's David Lee Roth? It's not exactly our dynamic.

JOHN
I don't care. Apathy is over, man. The kids are sick of it.

ANTHONY
(grinning)
Next time he should jump off the bass drum.

NEIL
Oh my god. I'd fucking quit.

Christian and Todd stride out to the bus, Christian smiling oddly.

TODD
Dudes, let's get outta here. We're not hanging out and drinking at this one.

JOHN
What? Did The Lake guys show up?

TODD
Nah, they're not gonna make this one. We'll meet 'em in Albuquerque.

Christian jumps into the bus without a word and Todd follows. The other guys look at each other.

ANTHONY
That's fucked up.

Neil laughs.

NEIL
He's stealing the guitar!

He tosses his cigarette and lets out a LOUD WHOOP of laughter.

NEIL
He's lost his fucking mind!

JOHN
(to Anthony)
Let's go, this could get really funny.

He heads off towards the bus door and Neil follows, grinning. Anthony hesitates for a few seconds. Then goes after them.

there is a mix-up

2007-02-11T17:56:00.000-08:00

Next installment! I believe this is what they call the catalyst, or the mcguffin, according to my old co-writer. (Who once named a dog in his script 'McGuffin'.) :)

INT. CLUB SPACELAND ENTRANCE -- LATER

Long Wolf is visible packing up their gear through an open door into the small backstage area. Fans and friends hang out around the door, chatting with the band and getting in the way.

Greta and Peter stand nearby, Peter obviously a bit drunk.

PETER
You'll never guess who I saw, you'll never guess who I saw.

GRETA
(watching the band unload)
Who?

PETER
Anita. By the bathrooms.

GRETA
Really? Did you say anything?

PETER
I didn't know what to do! I sincerely wish I was with Justine at the moment, I wish her bladder and mine had been synced up just at that moment...

GRETA
(distracted)
I doubt she would've thought you were together.

PETER
Hey! What is that supposed to mean?

Greta looks guilty.

GRETA
Oh, sorry, I didn't mean that the way it sounded.

PETER
(seriously offended)
Right.

MAXWELL (39), in a blazer with a skinny tie and mod buttons, steps out of the backstage doorway and sees them.

MAXWELL
Oh, are you the photo girl?

GRETA
Oh, yeah, hi.

PETER
Hi.

MAXWELL
(offering his hand)
I'm Maxwell, I work at Willows Green. Christian told me the guys would like you to go on the road with them? Take some pics?

PETER
(snippy)
I'm afraid she'll be too busy insulting me, actually. You should try again in the summer.

GRETA
Shut up! I said I'm sorry!

Christian brushes by them with his GUITAR CASE, complete with DEERHOOF STICKER.

GRETA
I'd love to.

MAXWELL
Great! We're heading out to Phoenix tomorrow though, do you think you can meet us there? We don't actually have room on the bus. Or do you want to meet us in Albuquerque on the 12th? I'm sure you've got some commitments to work out.

PETER
It's all right, there's no one she cares about here.

Greta elbows him.

GRETA
I can go to Phoenix tomorrow.

MAXWELL
Cool! Modified Arts. We'll see you there.

He waves and walks off.

PETER
Your car will never make it.

GRETA
Stop, stop, I said I was sorry, okay? Jesus.

PETER
(surprised)
...No, I'm serious, Greta. Your car probably won't make it.

She frowns.

EXT. ROAD -- DAY

The Lake's van trundles along.

INT. VAN -- CONTINUOUS

The guys ride quietly, looking tired. GRAM PARSONS plays on the tape deck and Tim drums along on the steering wheel.

Sylus looks lost in thought, slumped in the passenger seat. Micah sits in the back, looking worried. He starts to say something, and then stops.

MICAH
...Sylus?

SYLUS
Yeah.

MICAH
Hey, man, you know you and the Long Wolf guy had the same guitar case?

SYLUS
Yeah?

MICAH
I just realized I didn't look inside. I just grabbed one of 'em. I mean it was closest to our stuff...

Light dawns slowly on Sylus's face and Tim looks up at Micah in the rear view mirror.

TIM
Wait, what are we saying?

MICAH
Well, what if I... I mean, if it would really suck if -

SYLUS
Stop the car.

EXT. ROAD -- CONTINUOUS

The van SCREECHES to a halt, dust flying up behind it. Another car HONKS and swerves around.

INT. LONG WOLF VAN -- DAY

The band members are all sprawled across the seats, magazines, bags of chips, and headphones scattered around them. DEERHOOF plays on the stereo up front as TODD (40), their tour manager, drives. Todd has long red hair in a braid down his back.

Anthony beats on the back of a seat with his drumsticks until Neil grabs one of them.

NEIL
(beyond irritated)
Fucking stop it.

ANTHONY
Jesus. I'm bored, what do you want me to do?

NEIL
Let's stop again. I need a cigarette.

JOHN
Are you serious? Even I don't need one yet.

CHRISTIAN
(languidly)
Should we all sing "Tiny Dancer"?

NEIL
I fucking hate that movie.

ANTHONY
Man, why do you always turn into an ass on the road?

CHRISTIAN
Because...
(Todd's phone rings)
his heart is two sizes too small.

TODD
(into phone)
Hello?
(beat)
Yeah, what'd we leave?

The band listens. Todd bursts out laughing.

TODD
Seriously? What, the opening band's? That's a riot.

ANTHONY
What happened?

TODD
Hey Christian, you took the wrong guitar, man. You got that dude from The Lake's guitar!

The other guys all look surprised and start grinning.

CHRISTIAN
(amused)
How about that. I wanted a new one.

TODD
Yeah, they called Spaceland. What do you wanna do, have 'em drive out here?

JOHN
Out here? They're from Portland, right?

NEIL
Have him ship it.

CHRISTIAN
Shut up, I'm not having my Gibson shipped.

JOHN
He's got a Tele. You hate Fenders.

ANTHONY
Hey, aren't we playing Portland anyway?

JOHN
No, that got cancelled. We're done after Chicago.

TODD
(into phone)
Just tell 'em we'll figure it out when we get back. Christian doesn't want his shipped out here.
(beat)
Well, that dude probably doesn't want to do it either, and he's gotta play something.

CHRISTIAN
Tell The Lake they can use my Gibson if they take very special care of it.
(smiles)
Maybe they'll sound better.

The band laughs, not actually maliciously but just mildly amused.

EXT. DINER -- DAY

Sylus, Micah, and Tim sit at a booth, drinking coffee. They look grim.

MICAH
Well, how long are they gonna be out?

TIM
Probably a month. They're going all over.

SYLUS
I can't go that long.

TIM
Well, we don't have any shows coming up -

SYLUS
I don't care! What if he puts a dent in it? What if he breaks the switch? He doesn't know it sticks.

MICAH
Call them and tell him. We can get the number from Spaceland.

SYLUS
What if he scratches the neck? What if their van gets broken into?
(irate)
I mean, Jesus, what if he switches it out for someone else's damn guitar??

People in the booth nearby turn to look at them.

MICAH
How many Fender cases can there be with Deerhoof stickers?

SYLUS
Who knows? I don't care! I'm not playing his stupid Gibson, and I don't want him playing my grandad's guitar!

He thumps his mug down and it spills, coffee splashing onto his lap. He grabs a bunch of napkins furiously.

TIM
Sylus.

Sylus says nothing, but he slows down, mopping up the coffee.

MICAH
How come they're skipping the whole northwest? Even Seattle would've been all right, we could've driven up there...

TIM
If we wait till after the tour, you'll have to drive all the way back down to L.A. to get it.

Sylus looks up, light dawning.

SYLUS
Or we could go after them now.

MICAH
Go after them? I gotta work on Monday.

SYLUS
They're only heading to Phoenix, we could call them on the way out and ask them to meet us there!

Tim looks at his watch.

TIM
Yeah, we could catch them after the show, maybe.

MICAH
Aw, come on, I'm tired, man.

They both glare at him.

MICAH
Hey, it's not my fault! You two were getting drinks, I was packing everything by myself...

They still glare.

MICAH
Oh yeah, neither of you care about your damn jobs! But I'll get fired if we don't make it back Monday.

TIM
No, you won't, Kara's in love with you.

MICAH
Yeah, and if I turn her down one more time, and not show up, she's sure as hell gonna fire me.

SYLUS
Then her dad can hire you at his other store. It's no big deal, Micah.

Micah sighs.

MICAH
I'm tired of working at stores. Grocery stores, hardware stores, photo development...

SYLUS
Well, let's get my guitar back and play some more shows. Now we know that girl at The Lake blog likes us, we can send her our demo.

TIM
EP.

SYLUS
What?

TIM
(a bit like Peter)
It's not a demo, it's a self-produced EP. And don't you forget it.

He takes a big sip of coffee and Sylus and Micah burst out laughing. Tim frowns. He gets up and pulls his cap on.

TIM
It wouldn't do either of you any harm to start reading those blogs occasionally. Least I know what we're dealing with!

He walks out and Sylus raises his eyebrows at Micah, who puts his chin in his hands, wearily.

SYLUS
He's right, as usual.

MICAH
Yeah.

SYLUS
Ready to go cause trouble?

MICAH
As usual.

They haul themselves up and head out.

the meeting of sylus and greta

2007-01-13T15:54:00.000-08:00

Neeeext installment! This just helps me feel productive, since I'm not writing new stuff at the moment... I will, I will, I promise.

SMOKING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER

Peter and Greta wander in to the upstairs room of the venue, where people play pool and smoke, both of them holding drinks.

PETER
I'm tempted to go hit on Justine. What do you think?

GRETA
I dare you.

PETER
I mean she's single now. I bet she likes music columnists. I bet she finds us intellectual, and sexy.

Greta laughs and Peter ruffles his hair, grinning.

PETER
Give me one more drink and I'll go for it.

GRETA
I'm not giving you any, you get your own. These guys are starting, I'm gonna go down front.

She heads for the stairs.

PETER
All right, you do that. Tell them I said to come up with their own damn name next time!

MAIN ROOM

The Lake are now playing, starting off with a slow guitar intro. Sylus stands back from the mike a little bit, almost shyly, playing a delicate guitar line on his GRANDDAD'S GUITAR - an old Fender Telecaster, stripped to the wooden body underneath its original paint.

Greta slips through the small crowd that stands around the edge of the dance floor, those who hug the bar and small tables until the headliner comes on.

Sylus sings and his voice is nice - rough and gentle at the same time. Tim sings a low harmony for a few lines, and then Sylus pulls out the distortion and the song takes off. They have a clear, kind of shimmering 60s influenced sound, spacey and a little ambient, but not soft.

Greta steps up to the stage and watches them intently, the only person right up front. They are good.

The song finishes with a bang and the crowd CLAPS, not unenthusiastically.

SYLUS
Thanks. We're The Lake, from Portland.

TIM
(mischevious)
No, we're not, Sylus. Don't lie.

Sylus laughs and strums idly on the guitar.

SYLUS
Nobody's heard of SMALL TOWN, Tim.

They launch into another song and Greta aims her camera at Sylus.

CAMERA POV

She takes a snapshot. Sylus glances up surprised.

CUT TO:

LATER

Albus is now onstage, a stocky, gruff-looking group of guys in plaid shirts, a bit of a novelty to the Spaceland crowd. They play prettier music than their look, but SCOTT (30) sings with a raspy voice. A lot more people are gathered around the stage now.

Greta and Peter are at the bar.

GRETA
What did you think of The Lake?

PETER
Well, I was trying to talk to Justine, but it sounded okay, in the background of her hotness. Kind of Okkervil River meets The Shins, I guess.

GRETA
I liked it.

PETER
Did you see the tattoos on the singer? You think he was a hardcore kid who fell in love with James Mercer?

GRETA
(laughs)
I know, it doesn't fit.

Christian approaches them and they both perk up.

CHRISTIAN
(cool smile, to Greta)
I know you, don't I?

GRETA
Hi.

CHRISTIAN
Gretel, right?
(Peter chokes)
You interviewed us. You took all those great pictures at The Silverlake Lounge.

He looks at Peter.

CHRISTIAN
...And you are?

Peter's face is red as he offers his hand, going for the joke even though he's star-struck.

PETER
Hansel.

GRETA
(embarrassed)
Peter, shut up.
(to Christian)
It's Gre-ta, actually, but thanks, I'm glad you liked the pictures. And thanks for inviting us to this show.

CHRISTIAN
Any time, Gre-tah. What's your blog called again?

GRETA
The Lake.

PETER
Same as the last band.

CHRISTIAN
What a coincidence. Their guitarist has the same Deerhoof sticker on his guitar case as mine too.

GRETA
So you guys are hitting the road after this, aren't you, with Albus?

CHRISTIAN
We are. We'll need a good photographer,
(beat)
are you interested?

Greta and Peter both gape at him for a second.

GRETA
I'm sorry?

CHRISTIAN
(casually)
I mean we couldn't pay you or anything. We were going to take this guy Matthias Wiles on spec, but he's sick, apparently. Talk to me after the show!

He turns and walks away, passing Sylus, who is walking up to the bar with Tim. They both looked tired but cheerful.

PETER
(incredulous)
Greta!! Did he say Matthias Wiles? The guy who tours with everyone?
(beat)
You're gonna take his place??

GRETA
He must not be serious about it. He can't be.

PETER
He sounded serious!

GRETA
He sounded flippant.

PETER
(exasperated)
Greta! That's just the way he talks!

Sylus and Tim squeeze up to the bar next to them and Sylus notices Greta. He gives her a friendly nod.

SYLUS
Saw you up front, thanks for being up there.

GRETA
Oh hi. Yeah, sure, I'll send you a picture if I get any good ones.

SYLUS
Thanks! That'd be cool.

TIM
(politely, to Greta)
Would you like a drink?

PETER
I'll have a vodka tonic, thanks.

Tim stares at him, and Greta frowns. Tim shrugs and starts ordering from the bartender.

PETER
(oblivious)
Greta, this is huge! You're a photographer now! I mean, I've been going on and on about being a columnist on our own stupid website -

GRETA
All right, all right, we don't really know yet. Willows Green has to decide, I'm sure that's a label decision.
(to Tim)
Thanks for the drink, you guys sounded good, by the way. I liked the first song a lot.

SYLUS, TIM
Thanks! Thank you.

PETER
(distracted)
I'll be back, Greta, I gotta call Anne and Simon.

He runs off and Greta laughs, looking back at Tim.

GRETA
I'll take his drink.

SYLUS
You're sticking around, right? I mean, obviously for Long Wolf, but Albus are our friends, you should check out the rest of their set.

GRETA
Oh yeah, I know them. I interviewed them for our music blog, The Lake.

Tim and Sylus both nearly choke on their drinks.

GRETA
Speaking of which, I owe them some pics! I gotta get up front. Nice to meet you guys!

She takes her drink and hurries off through the crowd towards the stage.

SYLUS
There's a blog called The Lake??

TIM
Shows how out of the loop we are. Seems like fate though!

SYLUS
Fate? Why?

TIM
Well, they're bound to mention us, aren't they? At least in passing? "And next up was the band that stole our name..."

SYLUS
(grimly)
"In a desperate attempt to get our attention?"

TIM
Nah, she didn't seem like that type. She was cute.

SYLUS
Yeah, she was.

Micah approaches, looking tired and sweaty.

MICAH
All right, I just packed the rest of the gear all by myself, someone's buying me a drink.

Tim pats him on the back.

MAIN ROOM - LATER

Long Wolf are now onstage playing their beloved mix of 60s pop, psychedelica, and sonic madness. The indie fans are all pressed up against the stage, enthusiasm in their faces but their feet absolutely still, because it's uncool to dance.

Christian plays guitar and clings to the mike, singing a bit like Thom Yorke while the other three look very serious as they play: JOHN (28), handsome and thin with glasses, on two huge keyboards, ANTHONY (25), Asian with a round face and longish hair, on the drums, and NEIL (28), skinny and overdressed in a scarf and heavy blazer, on bass.

Sylus, Micah, and Tim stand near one corner of the stage, watching mesmerized. Micah hits Sylus.

MICAH
(over the music)
He's got that kit I want!

TIM
They're still impressive! Even though it's getting a bit old! Christian always wailing, and the rest all stone-faced.

SYLUS
It's a good dynamic.

MICAH
Do we have a dynamic?

SYLUS, TIM
(in unison)
No.

MICAH
Well, maybe we should get one!

Sylus notices Greta in front of them, taking photos. He watches as she stops and stands, watching the band thoughtfully for a moment. Then she climbs up on the corner of the stage, behind John the keyboardist, and takes a side shot. She hops back down and stumbles, Sylus catches her.

She smiles up at him and gives a small wave.

SYLUS
Are you gonna come out with a book?

GRETA
Huh?

SYLUS
Rock photography.

GRETA
No, but I'm going on tour with them!

SYLUS
You are??

She laughs and shakes her head.

GRETA
Maybe, I don't know! They asked me to. Are you guys heading east now?

SYLUS
Nah, this is the end of it. We head back after tonight.

GRETA
Oh, that's too bad. I liked your set.

SYLUS
(shyly)
Thanks... We haven't been around all that long...

Long Wolf finishes up and the crowd CHEERS around them, drowning out his words.

Greta climbs back up on the stage and snaps a picture of the CROWD. The Lake guys are all three right in the center.

sylus's band comes to spaceland

2006-12-24T16:27:00.000-08:00

Here's the next installment. I actually have 26 pages already written, but I figured it might be fun to post segments. Here you go, and Merry Christmas. :)

EXT. THE SHORTSTOP - BACK PATIO -- NIGHT

Greta places a fat garbage bag gingerly into the dumpster and stands there a second, brushing off her hands, looking around. The night is quiet now. She leans against the chain-link fence that pens in the tiny smoking area.

She looks up at the sky.

ALEX
Greta! Greta, where the hell is the close-out sheet?

Greta draws a deep breath and goes back in slowly.

EXT. BOTTOM OF THE HILL - SAN FRANCISCO -- NIGHT

Sylus and Tim carry out BAND EQUIPMENT, looking hot and sweaty, as a small crowd stands around, watching them with mild interest. Micah follows with DRUM CASES. A LOCAL GUY, (20's), wearing a hoodie under a blazer, stops him.

LOCAL GUY
Hey, what band are you guys?

MICAH
(encouraged)
The Lake. We're from Portland.

LOCAL GUY
Oh, okay, so what time do The Warlocks go on?

MICAH
(slightly annoyed)
Oh, I don't know.

He slides the drums into the back of the van, as Sylus stands there, stretching. Tim sits on the bumper.

MICAH
What do you think?

SYLUS
I kept sweating into my eyes.

MICAH
It's fucking hot in there!

TIM
Micah, go get people to sign the mailing list.

MICAH
No, Tim, I'm tired. Nobody cares anyway.

SYLUS
How do you know? How do you know they're not just playing it cool?

TIM
You always do the mailing list.

MICAH
(grumbling)
I just wanna get to L.A. and do the Long Wolf show.

Sylus and Tim gaze at him together, with a baleful expression. It's a look they've obviously practiced.

MICAH
(mildly annoyed)
...Shit, man...

He walks back in with his head down and Sylus and Tim grin at each other.

TIM
Do you think we pick on him?

SYLUS
(serious)
He's right though. Nobody cares.

He scratches his head and then slams the van door shut. He starts walking back towards the club entrance, his expression weary.

TIM
(following him)
Good shows and bad shows, Sylus, you know that. It's not a big deal.

SYLUS
Maybe not for you...

CUT TO:

INT. BOTTOM OF THE HILL -- CONTINUOUS

They step inside the dark venue and Tim looks at Sylus quizzically.

TIM
What are you talking about? Your dad?

Sylus steps up to the bar and gestures to the BARTENDER. Tim settles calmly onto a barstool next to him.

TIM
So you're the black sheep, so what. There's something impressive about that.

SYLUS
(to bartender)
A Red Stripe and a Guinness.

BARTENDER
A red what?

Sylus looks back at Tim.

SYLUS
Just a Heineken.

SYLUS
(to Tim)
I wish my granddad was still around, man. I'm getting tired of lugging his stupid guitar around, pretending he's watching.

TIM
You love that guitar.

They hear LAUGHTER and both notice Micah further down the bar, talking to some GIRLS and gesturing with a clipboard.

SYLUS
Don't let him fall in love again. Remember last time? At the Alehouse?

Tim accepts his Guinness and gives Sylus a scornful look.

TIM
That was you.

Sylus breaks into a grin and drinks his beer.

TIM
We just gotta keep plugging away. What were we talking about the other day, the music blogs? We gotta jump on that wagon.

Sylus laughs.

SYLUS
No way, I hate those kids. They're not even musicians, they just think they're fuckin' definitives on music.
(beat)
It's like they pick a band and decide they're gonna talk about them until they get signed.

Micah approaches them with a big smile.

TIM
Well, let's get picked. I'm sure they'll all be at the Long Wolf show.

Micah holds up the clipboard and there are seven email addresses written down.

SYLUS
You're a rockstar, son.

MICAH
The blonde and the redhead want to party with us.

The other two look startled. Groupies are obviously an unfamiliar thing.

SYLUS
What? Where?

TIM
They do?

MICAH
So I said we were one-third married and two-thirds tired and hungry, so maybe next time.

Sylus stares at him and Tim starts laughing. He wiggles his ring finger, revealing which third he is.

SYLUS
...You're not a rockstar, Mic.

MICAH
(yawning)
The blonde was all right but the redhead was really annoying. She said we sound like The Gin Blossoms...

TIM
(aghast)
We do not sound like The Gin Blossoms!

MICAH
I don't even know who that is.

SYLUS
(grinning)
Let's go.

EXT. CLUB SPACELAND - SILVER LAKE, CA -- NIGHT

A huge line of people snakes down the sidewalk from the unassuming venue with its small marquee. The large black letters read: FRIDAY LONG WOLF ALBUS THE LAKE

Greta stands in line with PETER (24), painfully thin with glasses and messy hair. He carries a notebook. Greta's hair is tied up into two knots at the back of her head and she wears a tanktop with black and white stripes. Her camera hangs from her wrist.

She looks happy and excited, in her element.

PETER
(reading marquee)
The Lake? How dare they?

GRETA
Maybe they're trying to get our attention.

PETER
Maybe we shouldn't flatter ourselves.

GRETA
I heard they're friends with Albus.

PETER
Must be Oregonians then. Look, there's Justine and Anders.

A handsome, fashionable looking COUPLE heads towards the end of the line and the four of them all wave to each other.

GRETA
(moving up in line)
Are they friends now?

PETER
Yeah, but I heard they still broke up the band.

GRETA
Oh no.

PETER
Never, never, start a band with your significant other. You might as well get a tattoo of their name.

They reach the door and show their IDs.

CUT TO:

INT. CLUB SPACELAND ENTRANCE -- CONTINUOUS

Peter gives their names to a jaded-looking GIRL behind a small desk. Greta shows her a photo pass.

MAIN ROOM

Sylus and Micah set up Micah's drum kit, the venue's signature silver curtains shimmering behind them. Tim messes with the bass amp and YELLS something towards the SOUNDMAN across the floor.

CHRISTIAN (33), tall and lanky with a beard and a floppy ski cap, stands off to one side, watching them.

MICAH
Who is that?

SYLUS
Long Wolf's singer.

MICAH
(startled)
Why is he watching us?

SYLUS
(shrugs)
Maybe we're his favorite band.

Micah laughs and plays the punchline beat on the drums. Tim looks up at him, with a fake scowl.

TIM
I told you never to do that.

MICAH
I can't help it. It was funny, and the drums are right here.

Sylus steps over to Christian and offers his hand.

SYLUS
Hey, I'm Sylus.

CHRISTIAN
(absently)
Oh, hi, I'm Christian. Are you Scott's friends?

SYLUS
Yeah, I went to school with him, before they moved down here. Back when they were "The Albus Band."

Christian laughs, a little derisively.

CHRISTIAN
Editing, my friend. It's so important. What are you called again?

SYLUS
The Lake.

CHRISTIAN
See then, you know. There's nothing extraneous about that one. Although you could always drop the article. I'm off to the bar! Happy playing.

He wonders off and Sylus turns to look at Tim and Micah.

TIM
So what's the handshake of Long Wolf like?

SYLUS
Kind of cold and limp.

Micah plays the punchline beat again and they both glare at him, as people start to filter in through the club doors. Micah holds up his hands, as if to say "What??"

in which we meet sylus platt and greta anders

2006-12-16T12:53:00.000-08:00

So I promised I'd put up some excerpts from the script about the blogger and the musician... I realize that was ages ago, but here are my excuses:

First of all, I lost the plot trail for awhile there and wasn't sure where I was going with it, (as you do), and then I managed to lose the disc for my screenwriting program, which was pretty old school and wouldn't run without the disc inserted. So that was fun. It wasn't that I was just too lazy to write it in Word - I couldn't even open the file. So I had to buy it again online and all...

But anyway, here you go. Don't try anything funny, I mail everything to myself for poor man's copyright purposes. LOL. Any suggestions for the small town outside of Portland?

FADE IN:

EXT. PLATT HOUSE - SMALL TOWN OUTSIDE PORTLAND, OR -- FOGGY EARLY MORNING

SYLUS PLATT (28) stands in the front doorway, tired, gazing out over the yard. He is a charmingly lost soul, tall and thin, a sweet expression belied by tattooed arms and a short scraggly beard.

In the yard, MICAH JONES (23) and TIM WILDER (33) load up a beat-up old van with some meager BAND EQUIPMENT. Micah, super skinny with bushy hair, throws an armful of cords into the van and turns to squint up at Sylus.

MICAH
Well you're up early, aren't you?

SYLUS
Going on tour, son.

Micah grins.

MICAH
I could eat a horse.

Tim, heavy-set with a full beard and baseball cap, slams the van doors closed and brushes his hands off.

TIM
Not me. I ate a good breakfast.

He smiles cheerfully and Micah laughs. Sylus shakes his head and steps off the porch. His father, PLATT (60's), comes to the door and looks down at them.

PLATT
You boys taking off now?

They all wave, getting into the van, Tim in the driver's seat. Platt stands watching them in his flannel shirt and heavy beard, a gruff-looking man who has never understood his son.

PLATT
(calling)
You fix that axle, son?

SYLUS
Yes sir!

They start the engine and Platt comes down to the passenger side window, where Sylus looks out at him hopelessly.

SYLUS
We're taking off now, Dad.

PLATT
(kindly)
Don't fool around too much, boys. Just get your business done and head back.

SYLUS
That's right, Dad.

TIM
Thanks for seeing us off, Mr. Platt!

Micah waves from the back. Platt stands there a moment, trying to think what to say.

PLATT
(to Sylus)
I guess your Granddad would be proud.

Sylus looks away and Tim steers the van across the dirt driveway, out onto the road. Around them, the Platts' land spreads out, green and damp, DEEP WOODS circling behind the house, extending as far as the eye can see.

DISSOLVE TO:

EXT. DOWNTOWN LOS ANGELES SKYLINE -- DAY

A thin line of smog extends as far as the eye can see.

INT. GRETA'S APARTMENT - LIVING ROOM -- DAY

GRETA ANDERS (26) sits on her couch, gazing out her large window. She is small and thin with doe-ish eyes and flaxen blond hair, twisted up behind her head. She looks like she is trying to remember something.

A tiny, slightly messy LIVING ROOM encircles her, with stacks of books and cds and a COMPUTER MONITOR lit up with ITUNES. PHOTOGRAPHS are stuck up in random places.

The phone RINGS on the windowsill and she picks it up.

GRETA
Hey.

PETER
Greta. You did read it, right?

GRETA
Yes, yes, I read it. It's good, I like it!

PETER
Really? Really, right? Because you know I spent all night writing it, Tuesday.

GRETA
Yes, I know, Peter. I could actually tell, haha.

PETER
Haha.

GRETA
(laughs for real)
I'm just kidding, it is good, I like it.

PETER
Okay, cause I was thinking maybe it could be a column that we run on a regular basis? You know, it's like this analysis of what is "cool," just kind of like a deconstruction of what is cool, you know what I mean? The hipsters'll love it.

GRETA
Peter, you are a hipster!

PETER
Well, yeah, that's how I know!

Greta shakes her head. She gets up and looks at her iTunes library. A small CAMERA rests next to the keyboard of her computer.

GRETA
So a column, huh? We've never really had a column...

PETER
I know, but it could be a new thing! I don't know, you think Simon and Anne would mind? You could give them more of the live reviews. I mean I don't have to see every shitty band that puts us on the guestlist...

GRETA
I don't know, I'll ask them.

PETER
Although I'm eternally grateful you got us both in for Long Wolf.

GRETA
You're welcome.

She clicks on a track on the computer and BAND OF HORSES's "The Great Salt Lake" starts up.

PETER
Great, cool, thanks, Greta. Hey, so guess what?

GRETA
(walking towards the kitchen)
What?

PETER
I'm a columnist now.

Greta laughs.

PETER
I'm living the dream.

GRETA
You should call your mom.

EXT. THE SHORTSTOP - ECHO PARK -- NIGHT

The dark building juts out on a street corner with a neon sign above the door that reads only COCKTAILS. People straggle in, talking, pass the doorman LEROY (30's), black, heavyset with a patient expression.

A small group stands outside SMOKING.

INT. THE SHORTSTOP -- CONTINUOUS

The inside is large and dark with a cluster of people at the bar, and doorways on either side to separate rooms. Greta and ALEX (29) work at the bar while music from a JUKEBOX in the corner plays overhead. The music is a mix of old soul or country hits with indie rock in between.

Alex, wearing a band tee shirt and a constant irritated expression, is quick and efficient - Greta appears awfully short on their side of the bar and moves slowly, but she is friendlier with the customers.

One of them is LAUREN (20's), a tall, loud girl with dyed black, messy hair and big jewelry.

LAUREN
Greta! I didn't know you were working tonight!

GRETA
Hey Lauren. Yeah, I switched with Beth.

LAUREN
God, that girl has so much drama going on! So much drama.

GRETA
(only mildly interested)
Really? What's going on?

LAUREN
God, she didn't tell you?

A GUY with messy hair and a trucker cap cuts in.

TRUCKER CAP GUY
Hey, can I get a Pabst?

Lauren looks at him critically and then rolls her eyes at Greta. Greta nods and gets the drink for him as his FRIENDS crowd in and start TALKING LOUDLY. Lauren leans across the bar.

LAUREN
Can you believe there's someone here in a trucker hat?

Greta grins and opens the beer.

LAUREN
I mean, really. Does everyone have to come here now?

Alex stands near them, annoyed, shoving his hair back.

ALEX
It's way too fucking crowded.

LAUREN
I mean, come on! This used to be our bar! We need to get on Leroy,
(gestures at the door)
and get him to be a little more selective...

GRETA
(surprised)
Then we'd be Hollywood!

LAUREN
What are you talking about, Hollywood lets everyone in these days.

GRETA
Oh, I guess I haven't been there in awhile.

She gives the guy his drink and takes his money.

LAUREN
Ha! But anyway, Greta, what happened with Beth -

A couple of LAUREN'S FRIENDS join her at that moment and she gives a little SHRIEK, hugging them.

LAUREN
Ricky! Julie!

The little group CHATTERS there, blocking a few other patrons from getting to the bar, so Greta moves down and takes a few more drink orders.

MILES (23), thin and underaged-looking, with a short beard and glasses, perches his elbows on the edge of the bar and gives Greta a little wave.

GRETA
Hey Miles!

MILES
Hi. How's the blogging?

He speaks a little effeminately.

GRETA
Good. How's the band?

MILES
Oh, you know, still quietly enjoying obscurity.

Greta laughs.

GRETA
Jamison, right?

MILES
(beaming)
That's it.

She pours him the whiskey.

MILES
So you're going to the Long Wolf show, right? Taking pictures?

GRETA
Yeah, their manager set up an interview with us.

MILES
(sipping his drink)
Lucky! I'll be paying my $15 with the rest of the rabble.

GRETA
$15! Can you believe that? They used to play Monday nights at The Echo.

MILES
Last time we ever saw them for free.
(he drinks)
You played a part in that, you know that, right?

Greta has obviously considered it, but feels guilty at the thought. She scratches her head.

GRETA
I guess we did write about them a lot.

MILES
Oh, don't underplay it! The Lake gave them a feature every other week! You singlehandedly created a buzz that's currently allowing those guys to quit their day jobs.

Greta notices a gesture from another PATRON and nods at him.

GRETA
(repeating)
Heineken? Okay...

MILES
Well, I'll see you next week then. Cheers.

He raises his glass and timidly pushes away from the bar.

GRETA
(calls after him)
Don't believe everything we print, Miles!

He disappears into the crowd.

soooooooo behind...

2006-08-30T18:21:00.000-07:00

And so ashamed. Sorry, folks, I've gotten a little busy and haven't finished a story in awhile. I did however turn the last one I had started into the beginnings of a screenplay (which I'm kind of excited about), so I will try to post some portions of it up when I get a chance. It's been really fun! I came out of college with the temporary, mistaken belief that I wanted to be a screenwriter - after three or four, I dropped it, realizing I am way too character and dialogue driven. And I don't watch enough movies. (I prefer going to see bands.) And I hate blockbusters. Hate, hate them with a hipster passion... I do not watch movies that star Denzel Washington, Tom Cruise, or Harrisson Ford (excluding Star Wars and Indiana Jones).

Anyway! That tangent aside, I did actually cowrite one years ago that now may go somewhere (through Relativity Productions), so who knows. I'm no longer a serious part of the project but if it does succeed, I'll get some credit and a little money. (Unfortunately, they are actually trying to get Denzel cast as a major character. Figures.) I truly love the short story format, especially it isn't much of a format, but the plot for this new one just sprang up on me while I was on vacation last month. Before that I had just the rambling beginnings of a story about a girl in Los Feliz who writes for a big music blog and bartends at night (it's not me, in case you were wondering), and this new plot idea went perfectly with it.

I think since the submissions from other writers has diminished to zero as well (oh well), I'm going to let this slip into a nice, rambling blog format a little bit, instead of a nicely organized webzine. (Which it never really was.) Maybe a few music reviews, something like that. Okay? Okay. I'll post some bits of the screenplay, assuming I stick with it. If you want to see one reason why I've been keeping so busy, go here. Yes, I did steal the name from Amy's band in "Malestado" (below). I'm allowed to steal from my own brain, thank you very much.

malestado

2006-04-13T23:57:00.000-07:00

The little dead girl “lived” at the church on 3^rd street. Of that Amy was sure. She had dreamed about her twice, and seen her once, just that once, driving home late at night, from Byron’s apartment. Amy thought about her again, as she clipped back her hair, her bass hanging heavy around her neck at practice, a block of hot sunlight stretched across the wooden floor at her feet. She was wearing short shorts and sneakers with no socks, and her feet were sweating into the canvas of her shoes.

Mark was tuning his guitar, the ends of his new strings twisted wildly in all directions off the headstock, needing to be cut. “It’s hot,” he said, and stared at her legs, absently, which he had a habit of doing when she wore shorts. Amy had no idea why. She had to be the skinniest, whitest girl for miles around. This was Echo Park.

“Is Steve bringing the fan?” she asked.

“Nah, it broke.” Mark coughed and turned off his tuner. “He called me last night though and said he wrote a new song. Did I tell you?”

Amy shook her head and played the opening bass line to the one they were working on before. The newest one was always her favorite, always thumping over and over again in her head, for days. She liked to get the buzziest sound she possibly could out of her amp, and drive it into the ground. Her arms were getting really strong.

“Yeah, he was all excited. He’s been very prolific lately,” Mark said, grinning. “How’s Señor Byron?”

“Good,” Amy said, even though Byron didn’t really call her anymore. Even though she was positive she had seen a little girl’s ghost the last time she had seen Byron. And she was probably losing her mind. Mark squinted at her shirt.

“What’s this one say?”

“Marie Leveau’s House of Voodoo,” she said, shyly.

“What’s that?”

“It’s in New Orleans. Corinne and Shelly got it for me.”

“I forgot they went down there,” Mark said. “What else did they bring back?”

“…Ghosts,” Amy said mildly.

“What?”

Steve stomped up the steps, abruptly, and shoved open the screen door, carrying his guitar case and a six-pack of Red Stripe. “Guys! Guys.” He stopped and stared at them, for emphasis. “I wrote the fucking song.”

“Yeah, you told me,” Mark said.

“No, I wrote the fucking song, the song that will ‘make Israel and Palestine get along!’” he announced and they both started to laugh. Steve never failed to reference song lyrics from his newest favorite band. Lately, it was Art Brut.

“…‘As universal as Happy Birthday,’” Mark chimed in and took the six-pack from him.

“Indeed.” Steve beamed at Amy, his beard sweaty from the steep flight of steps that led up to the house. This was Mark’s house, where he lived with his friend Alex, from New York, and where Alex's girlfriend Gina used to live, but they had broken up a month ago. Steve lived in Silver Lake, in a one-bedroom apartment with three other guys, where they took turns sleeping on the couch. Amy lived around the corner from Mark in a house with her sister Corinne, and Corinne’s best friend Shelly. That was everyone Amy hung out with. Everyone at all.

Amy had met Byron at a bar near downtown a few weeks ago, when she got there early, and was standing around waiting for Corinne. He was Mexican, and Mexican guys never seemed interested in Amy, so she was surprised and curious. They never even came to the bars where she hung out, which was ironic, considering her hangouts were all in Latino neighborhoods. But they were random bars filled with white people, mostly white guys, the kind of guys that played obscure rock singles and classic soul hits on the jukebox. It was sort of a phenomenon.

Byron was charming and kind of old-fashioned, even chivalrous. They went on three whirlwind dates and then he suddenly seemed to turn a bit cold towards her. She thought maybe it was the band thing; sometimes guys liked her because she was sweet and shy, even a little gawky, and that was their type. So then when it came out that she played in a rock band and was serious about it, it caught them off guard.

Or maybe he just wanted a fling with a white girl.

“I kept thinking about you when I was in the Quarter, Amy,” Corinne had said, when they came back from their trip.

“Really, why?” she asked. They were lying on Corinne’s bed, which they had moved out onto the screened-in porch, because it was so hot. Amy hadn’t been able to afford a trip to New Orleans. She was a waitress at Millie’s, while the other two girls ran a boutique together and paid most of the rent. The boutique was a lovely, tiny shop that sold flowers and lingerie, across from a liquor store and rat-hole apartments. But their clientele drove to find it.

“It just had a vibe for you there, honey. It just had a vibe.” Corinne spread out her postcards on the comforter in front of them, like tarot cards. “You know, you have that quality about you, that atmosphere.”

The little dead girl wore a bonnet and a long gray dress. She had dark skin. She stood in front of the strangely gaudy little church, which had a neon sign blinking, through the bars of the gate, “The Superet Light Center – Prayer Garden.” That night, there was something both seedy and gothic about the church, like a wedding chapel out of Beetlejuice. It was an odd sign for a church too, blinking on and off late at night, and the little girl’s face was forlorn, so forlorn. She stood with one hand on the pole of the neon sign. Amy had nearly crashed into a parked car, from staring at her.

She had driven by again, during the day, and the church was there, far less anomalous in the bright sunlight. And of course there was nobody there, holding the sign pole. The sign was not even neon. It was now an ordinary, painted sign, with the same name as the night before.

“Amy. Amy,” Mark was saying, holding a beer out at her. Steve had plugged in and was stepping on his pedals, looking excited.

She snapped out of it and took the bottle from him. “Thanks.”

“Drink it while it’s cold, Miz Leveau,” he said, and then Steve launched into a searing guitar riff that was not their style at all.

Amy drove home after practice, feeling tired and content, the way she always did after playing. The only time she did. Fingers calloused and arm muscles sore and legs weary of standing. Corinne and Shelly had people over, filling up the tiny old house, standing around with drinks. Shelly’s favorite band We Are Scientists was booming out of the stereo on the windowsill. Amy squeezed through the people and sat down in front of the fan in the corner, letting her hair blow back.

“Hi, honey,” Corinne said, leaning down and wrapping her arms around her.

“Hey. Who are all these people?”

“I’ll introduce you. I’ll introduce you to everyone.” Corinne pulled her up, a little drunkenly. Her blond hair was twisted up and she had long, dangly earrings on. “Are Mark and Steven coming?”

“Yeah, they wanted to take showers first.”

Corinne steered her around the small crowd of mostly guys, white guys in military jackets, with beards. Corinne liked to say, “This is my little sister Amy. She’s in The Fast Sails.”

“Oh, I saw you guys last weekend.”

“I thought you looked familiar.”

“Hey, your man Steven is the shit. You need a drummer though.”

“Yeah, programmed drums are pretty passé.”

Amy nodded and smiled, and accepted a cup of beer – red beer, because Shelly had thrown a St. Valentine’s Day party where they dyed all the beer red, and Corinne had decided their beer should always be red, from then on. So they could be the Red Beer Girls. Amy thought it looked like they were all drinking blood.

They drank and smoked and changed the music, and some people danced, and Mark and Steven showed up with Mark’s friend Alex, all a bit drunk already. Alex got really drunk and went off on a rant about his ex, Gina. Amy went out onto the porch to lie on Corinne’s bed in the cool night air. She lay there and thought about how Byron wasn’t going to call anymore. How, once again, something that had barely started, had already faded to nothing, and she felt the loneliness seep back in. She closed her eyes and slowly the image of the little dead girl swam into view, her hand on the sign pole, her face so frighteningly sad. The girl was sad. She was hurt, and horribly alone. Amy felt cold. Something was wrong. Goosebumps suddenly shot up her arms.

“Tired already?” Mark’s voice sounded, and Amy sat up like lightning. She threw an arm up in front of her, like she was being attacked. Mark froze. Then he started to laugh, standing there with his red beer. “Little jumpy, huh?”

“Uh…” Amy shivered and rubbed her arms. She didn’t know when the skimpy breeze she had been so grateful for had actually become cold. “I fell asleep. I was dreaming.”

“Oh, well, go back to sleep then,” he said, a little embarrassed. “I was just wondering where you were…”

“No, I’m awake.” Amy curled her legs up and sat Indian-style, and Mark sat down next to her.

“Did you have a nightmare or something?” he asked.

“Yeah.” Amy rubbed her eyes and looked at him seriously. “Do you know what that little church near downtown is, The Superet Light Center?”

“Oh yeah, my dad was talking about it.” Mark’s dad was a professor of religious studies at Occidental College. “It’s one of those weird, New Age, religious groups, I don’t know exactly. It’s not an actual cult though. Why?”

“I was just wondering,” she said.

“You know what’s kind of cool,” he added, drinking his red beer. “There’s this house not that far from there, it’s like on Bonnie Brae Street and 1^st, where that whole movement started where people speak in tongues. What’s it called, Pentacostalism?”

“Really?” Amy asked.

“Yeah, the ones that writhe on the floor and all that stuff. It started right there, in that house. My dad said this pastor that started it was black, which was really unusual at the time, kind of controversial. Pentacostalists were pretty racially tolerant, so people didn’t like them.” He looked thoughtful for a second and took another sip of beer. “They’re not related to the Superet people, but it is kind of creepy, huh? Like there’s this little hotspot of weird religions going on right there, you know what I mean?”

“…Yeah.”

“It’s a pocket of extremists,” he said, grinning. “I mean, the Superet people believe in auras.”

“Auras?”

“Yeah, they think they can see them. Like a life-glow or something…”

“Hey guys,” Steve called, from inside. “Gina’s band is playing at The Silverlake Lounge and Alex wants to go.”

“He wants to go?” Mark exclaimed. “To heckle her, or what?”

“We’re all going! Let’s go, let’s go,” Steve’s voice trailed off, sing-song, as he headed for the door. Many footsteps followed, validating the remark, and Mark looked at Amy. He seemed tired.

“I don’t wanna go,” he said. “They’re awful. And Alex is just gonna pick a fight with her.”

“Do you want to go somewhere with me?” Amy asked him. Mark stared at her for a second and then put down his beer.

“Yes,” he said, serious.

“I want to go check out that church, the Superet one.”

“Oh.” He coughed, embarrassed. “Right. Why?”

Amy looked out through the screen at the dark street slanting down the hill in front of them, and debated telling him. Cars were starting up, as people from the party were heading out to the show. “Well, I drove by it one time at night and it had a neon sign that was blinking,” she said slowly. “And then the next day, I drove by and it was a wooden sign. Painted.”

“A neon sign? I never saw it with a neon sign,” Mark told her.

“I know,” she said. “What kind of church has a neon sign?”

“Were you drunk?”

“No! I don’t drive drunk,” Amy told him. He shrugged.

“That’s what all these guys are about to do right now,” he said, jerking his head out at the driveway.

About twenty minutes later, Amy pulled up in front of The Superet Light Center on 3^rd, and stared out the window at the gate in the front. Mark leaned over from the passenger side and peered out with her. There were no lights at all this time, let alone the brilliance of neon. The building was merely small and dark. The whole street was quiet and dimly lit. Up the street, a small crowd gathered at a taco stand, but no voices carried down towards them.

“I think something bad happened here,” Amy said, feeling her skin crawl.

“Really? …Like somebody died?” Mark asked, intrigued.

“Yeah. Yeah, like somebody died.” Amy turned the engine off and unbuckled her seatbelt.

“Wait a minute!” Mark said, grabbing her arm. “If something bad happened, then we don’t want to be here.” Amy nodded in agreement and then got out of the car anyway, headed for the gate. “Woah, woah.” Mark jumped out and ran around the car, up to her side.

“Amy, what are you doing?”

She stood there with her hands on the bars, listening, a warm breeze rustling the bushes and leaves on the other side. Racially tolerant. People hadn’t take kindly to that. Something had gone wrong. She could hear whispering now, inside the rustling. Voices murmuring. Frightened… threatening… frightened. The little girl had run all the way here from Bonnie Brae Street. Amy was sure of it. She felt out of breath herself, suddenly, as if it had been her. She had run for her life, all the way here. But then she had fallen, and given in to whoever was chasing her. Had she collapsed at this very spot? This place where she was now just a specter? Just a presence felt by these New Age believers, this new group of extremists. People with extreme beliefs were probably drawn to such places…places with atmosphere.

Amy knew the little girl was still there. She was on the other side of the gate, small and dark and sad.

“Amy…?” Mark asked, his voice scared. She looked at him and noticed for the first time how blue his eyes were.

“Don’t you ever think it’s weird, the way things are?” she asked him. She was still clinging to the bars.

Mark’s forehead furrowed as he stared back at her, trying to understand. “What do you mean?”

Tiny cold hands closed over Amy’s fingers. She leapt back and shrieked. Mark grabbed her, both arms around her, and ran for the car. He started the engine and screeched off down the street, the group near the taco stand staring after them.

“Gueros locos!” one of them yelled.

Mark didn’t stop until they reached The Silverlake Lounge. He grabbed Amy’s hand and they scrambled frantically inside, past guys with beards and wearing jackets, not stopping until they were right up front by the stage. Right under the venue’s trademark: the brightly-lit sign that read “Salvation.”

-L2T

this is horribly written, but necessary

2006-04-12T20:44:00.000-07:00

I've been watching the news a lot lately about the immigration bill and here's what I have to say:

I can understand both sides of the arguement. On one side of the arguement there are Americans that feel that their jobs and culture are being threatened by these immigrants. Some even feel, legitimately, that this is an issue of national security. But on the other side of the arguement, one can't help but sympathize with those who come here in search of something better. The bill that is in question however will not solve the problem. In order to solve this problem we need to ask the question: why do so many of them want to come to America so bad?

People don't emigrate to another country unless there is something wrong with the country they are living in. In fact, many Americans in the first half of the nineteenth century came to Mexico (California) because times were hard in America. Mexico offered opportunity. The people that illegally immigrate to this country (from Mexico, specifically) come here because even the most labor-intensive jobs pay better here than in Mexico. They have a chance to put their children in better schools, get better heathcare, and ultimately increase the quality of their familys' lives.

Now consider the point of view from the average American factory worker who just lost his or her job because their employer just moved their factory operations to a foreign country. Factory workers in this country are losing their jobs. This has been happening progressively for decades. Can you blame them for being angry?

I'm not completely certain that this is the cause of the problem, because I don't know enough about the relationship between American businesses and the Mexican government, but if I had to guess I would suppose that the real root of the problem is that some American, as well as foreign multinational corporations) are in cahoots with the Mexican government.

In some American History class I took years ago, my professor gave me a list of seven things that are necessary to create a prosperous economy. I can't remember all seven, but I remember some: vast agricultural areas, waterways, industry, a viable network of road and railways, and a stable government. It appears to me that Mexico has all of these with the exception of a stable government. In my opinion, all governments are corrupt to some degree, but I've always had the impression that Mexico's government is especially corrupt (I hope I'm right because I don't have any facts to back this opinion up)

The multinationals that I previously mentioned take advantage of corrupt Mexican politicians and use their power to create a political environment that supports their exploitation of common workers. This translates to huge multinational corporations reaping huge profits by paying their workers pennies to the dollar to make their products.

If I was a Mexican father working in an American-owned factory thirty miles south of the U.S./Mexico border for a few dollars an hour, there's no doubt in my mind that I would want and probably try to move my family to America. Why would I settle for petty wages when I could be providing the same level of work for better pay--and better opportunity for my family?

So to me, the real solution to the problem is not to close the borders and make it a felony to be or support an illegal immigrant. The solution is more compex and probably impossible. The corporations that take advantage of cheap labor in third world countries need to start making business decisions not only in the name of profits, but also in conscience. I've never been fond of capitalism, but if capitalism is ever going to succeed in the long-term on this planet, these multinational corporations as well as the governments of all countries need to balance their desire for profit with an appreciation for the the one resource that makes the entire world economy possible: the human being.

-Erick Safety Willemse ("this is horribly written" is his own title)

are you going to eat that?

2006-04-05T23:17:00.000-07:00

*a rebuttal to "the importance of remembering to feed yourself"

My whole life I have been a big girl, from birth as a matter of fact. Although I was skinny then (probably for only time in my life,) I was long. The 99^th percentile, whatever that means, some absurd way they measure babies and compare them to other babies. Like it really matters. Anyways, I guess that means I was bigger than 99% of other babies my age. Well, as the years went by, I remained bigger than the other girls, and other boys for that matter. In every school picture and class performance I was in the back row with the other tall kids. In adult life, I’m always asked to get things off the top shelves for people. But this is beside the point, tallness is a blessing, fatness on the other hand, is a curse. Not only am I tall (I’ve stopped growing at 5’10”) I’m overweight too. I prefer to not use the word fat, as is has such a negative connotation in this world, and it makes me sad. So, I’m overweight. I like to eat, and it shows. But, for the first time in my life I’m (relatively) OK with it. I have a bad day every now and then, but who cares. If you don’t like me for it, don’t talk to me.

I’ve tried every diet on the face of the planet, some more than once. Starvation and bulimia never worked for me. All girls have tried it, only a few will admit it. The thought of eating all that precious food to just throw it up a few minutes later was ludicrous. I just ate a donut, now I have to go vomit? Oh hell no! Are you kidding me? Any diet that involves some sort of deprivation doesn’t work for me, or anyone I suspect, for any prolonged period of time either. When you are told you can’t have something, you only want it more, so the longer you deprive yourself of it, the worse the craving gets, until it all comes to a head and you find yourself up in the middle of the night standing in front of the fridge eating ice cream/left over Chinese/frozen girl-scout cookies/whatever you can get your hands on right out of the carton. You might not even like it, but you MUST HAVE IT. I’m thoroughly convinced. Food is a drug and I am addicted. I’ll admit it. I have a problem. But it just tastes so damn good!

Which brings me to the point of this rant. I’ve been observing people for the full 24 years I’ve existed and I’ve discovered there are 2 types of people. Those who love food, and those who, dare I say, “eat to survive.” These people are an odd bunch. When offered a cookie at a party, I’ll gladly accept it, and probably take a couple. No, I’m not hungry, but it’s a cookie, who doesn’t want a cookie? The Eat to Survive (ETS) doesn’t, that’s who. The ETS isn’t hungry either, therefore, no cookie. Sure these people eat, they, by no means suffer from eating disorders, they simply just don’t desire it. They eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner when they are hungry for it, and maybe a snack or 2 in between, but never in excess. When they go out to eat with their friends, if they’ve already eaten they simply don’t order anything. For me this would be torture in the worst way, watching people eat, and not getting any. If I were in this situation I’d be picking off my friends plates, or I’d order food just for the heck of it, and you better believe I’d eat it all, and I’d enjoy it.

The ETS is a strange being to me, and to most other people I assume, since you really don’t come across one very often. Most people love to eat, and no, this does not make you fat, some people just control it better or have a faster metabolism. I’ve never been able to decide if I envy the ETS or if I feel sorry for them. Eating is such a joy for me, but at the same time it’s a terrible burden. “If I didn’t eat I wouldn’t be overweight, if I weren’t overweight I would have ______ “(insert anything that you happen to want at the time.) Food makes me happy, but then again it makes me sad. So are these Eat to Survive individuals right after all? Should we all be this way? I myself find it quite sad that they eat only to survive. They miss out on the fun of it all. And that’s the best part.

So I’ve decided, I’ll take the cookie, thank you, and I’ll probably have another after that. And if you don’t want yours I’ll eat it too. If you’re not going to enjoy it, I sure as hell will. So what if I’m fat (gasp,) I’m happy. At least for the moment…

- Shannaction

the land of immigrants

2006-04-02T23:19:00.000-07:00

So Akzoe and I made it to the march last Saturday, in downtown L.A., and I have to say I never expected a crowd of that size. I knew it would be big (and I knew I would be "the white girl"), but I still didn't expect to see what we saw. All the way into the area, we passed people headed that way on foot, wearing white T shirts and wrapping themselves in Mexican flags, U.S. flags, El Salvadoran flags. Cars were honking at them and waving. There were lots of families with children in tow; one man carried around a little dog with a crazy look in his eye.

We were one of the last few to find parking in a structure at Grant and 7th, before it closed like most of the others, and then we started out, just following the crowd. Neither of us had worn white - I had an Art Brut shirt on that said "Popular culture no longer applies to me" and Akzoe had a Korean shirt for Assemblyman Mark Ridley-Thomas. So we represented, in a way! We were hunting for a supposedly large group of Koreans that we had come to meet, but we only ran into a smattering here and there. The majority of the crowd was obviously Latino, although I spotted about 15 or so white people and 2 black people. People who bumped into me said Perdon first, before they looked, and then added, "Sorry!" We were the odd white girl and Asian girl out; Akzoe climbed up on top of newspaper dispensers to look for faces she recognized, while I stayed a little less conspicuous.

We broke through onto what we thought was the main drag, on Broadway, and suddenly there was no room anywhere. There were so many bodies - I had to hold onto Akzoe's bag not to lose her. The sidewalk we were on was crowded, but there was an actual sea of people in the street alongside us. There were fog horns going off, people chanting, Si se puede! (Yes, you can!) Ahora justicia! (Justice now!) Amnistia! (Amnesty!) El pueblo unido something, something I couldn't catch! (The people, united, can never be defeated?) They were waving banners and signs, and flags were catching in my hair from people behind me.

My favorite sign was a gigantic banner that read, "After I built your house and growed your food, why are you treating me like a criminal?" A pretty damn valid point, in my opinion. There were also many that said America was made up of immigrants. We reached a major intersection and turned to see a whole other branch of the march continuing along streets parallel to Broadway, on either side! The march spread across to Los Angeles St. and Main St. - four streets in total, spilling into each other at every intersection, until we reached City Hall. There was a mass of people gathered at the terrace of City Hall, where the mayor was speaking in Spanish. He was followed by many different community leaders, some speaking in Spanish and some in English. The Spanish was not translated and my high school Spanish definitely didn't keep up, although I caught some important phrases. An elderly Korean woman also spoke and was interpreted, although Akzoe said somewhat inaccurately.

We stayed there in the crowd for a long time, squeezing through into different sections, listening to whatever we could understand. There was a lot of repetition - We are not criminals! We are not terrorists! We are workers! Akzoe took pictures of signs and flags, some of the views from the street cross-sections, out to the other branches of the march. We left around 2, tired and hungry, but pretty uplifted. Akzoe was a bit saddened, however, by the underrepresentation of the Korean community. The total number of people that I keep reading now is 500,000 people. 500,000. That is quite a large group to piss off, my friends. I'm glad to have been among them.

the importance of remembering to feed yourself. (seriously.)

2006-03-20T21:34:00.000-08:00

*featured on The Tripwire, 6/7/06 - current

So there is a line in The Lost Soul Companion, by Susan M. Brackney, that goes, “I have sobbed uncontrollably at the thought of peeling a potato or boiling water for pasta. It all required more energy than I actually had. (Ironically, I lacked energy because I did not eat well enough.)” I dog-eared this page years ago, because it is exactly the way I feel about cooking, and also grocery shopping for that matter. Sometimes, no matter how hungry I am, I just can not deal.

I can tell you that this kind of mindset is not actually an eating disorder. It is just one example of how the ordinary, day-to-day tasks can become so heavy and so absurd to artistic types, that we just can’t stand the thought of them. They are just so damn far removed from all the ideas in our heads… And besides, did we not just deal with them yesterday? WTF? Why do we have to do them again? I don’t claim to know for sure, but I suspect that this attitude (along with a lot of cigarette-smoking) is why so many of those indie kids are so skinny…

This may be a tangent, but I believe that attitude is suspiciously related to how I felt about my last retail job. I worked at a high-end boutique in a small, affluent beach city, and was constantly struck by the overwhelming absurdity of it all. I sat at our little staff meetings and listened to the most inane information possible about the approaching arrival of new boots and sidewalk sales, and realized, not only did I not care, but I couldn’t even understand why anyone would care. It was so far removed from what mattered to me, it was like being on another planet. …I have to be here again? I was just here yesterday!!

But getting back to the point, it doesn’t help our eating habits that, as starving artists, we don’t have much money to spend on food in the first place. If one is struck with the realization that one should either buy lunch today or buy drinks later tonight, I am ashamed to say it is the artists’ mentality to skip lunch. Why? Because eating is not really very exciting, but going out and having a few drinks can make you very happy. In fact, when you are starting to despair over the humdrum little existence you seem to have carved out for yourself, going out and having a few drinks can make you feel like the possibilities are endless. You could meet someone exciting. You could have a truly inspiring conversation with a friend who really gets you. You could drink too much and decide to walk with your friends to the nearby apartment of a couple of guys you just met, where one of them urges you to take his ex-girlfriend’s left-behind clothes, because apparently, she is not ever coming back. …And she has nice stuff. (This really happened.)

Again, infinitely better than going home, going to bed, getting back up, and going back to work. And then going home, going to bed, and so on and so forth. Even if your car is towed and you end up spending a thousand times more than any lunch could have cost you that day…

But when I grocery shop, I find myself going, “I don’t really need that. I don’t really need this,” to make sure I save money. Then I wonder why I go through what I bought so quickly, and have to run out again. I live in Koreatown, so I have started rummaging through the Korean markets near me, for simple things like frozen dumplings or anything you can toss in a frying pan with oil. I have a habit of setting the smoke alarm off. I have also discovered the phenomenon that is the Trader Joe’s mother ship, on the corner of 3^rd and LaBrea, where everyone and their mother goes, and even certain local band members work. The first time ever that I ran into someone I knew in L.A. was in that Trader Joe’s parking lot, and I thought, “Wow! I’m really a local now.” So I wend my way through the ridiculous amount of shoppers in that store and buy simple things like frozen burritos or frozen vegetables or frozen pizza… Absolute minimum effort for a fairly minimum price.

And being from the south, I do occasionally cook a big pot of black-eyed peas or red beans, but only when I know I’m not going anywhere for awhile. That Snicker’s slogan is very fitting in this case, for these things have to cook for about an hour and a half. And this is dangerous, because if I am working on a song or a story, they will actually end up cooking for about four hours. And the smoke alarm will go off. Or I will remember them right at the hour and a half mark, and it will be too late to add any onions or seasonings of any kind, so I am stuck with a pot of absolutely tasteless beans. Cooked properly or not, the truth is I will only be able to eat beans and rice for a couple days anyway before the sight of them makes me sob uncontrollably, give up on dinner altogether, and decide to go out drinking.

Despite all this, every now and then, a good hot meal will actually save me from my head in the clouds. Last Sunday, I drove around and around, doing a good deal of thinking, and jotting things down, only to realize after awhile that I was starving. I pulled over at Bright Spot in Echo Park, where I ordered food, and kept on making my notes. I did not even notice the other patrons or my surroundings, until they served me a big plate of country fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn. I took one look and then wolfed it all down as if someone were going to take it away. And I left afterwards with a wonderful, accomplished sense of well-being - I was being productive and I was taking care of myself!

Somehow I doubt that kind of sight - a skinny, brooding, 20-something with a notepad, eating like they haven’t in days - is terribly uncommon in that part of town.

akzoe's response to a reporter's questions

2006-02-26T20:36:00.000-08:00

Recent top headlines printed stirring tributes and memorials to the late Coretta Scott King. In stark contrast, other headlines alongside reported mass violence and death tolls related to the outraged Muslim protestors over the publication of caricatures depicting the Prophet Muhammad in European newspapers.

Mrs. King and her husband were revered all over the world as apostles of peace, freedom, justice, and human dignity. They are celebrated all over the world because they stood for these values that are universal to practically every nation in the world: America, Korea, Muslim nations all included. With these two different headlines side by side, Mrs. King seems to speak to the violence around the world.

Indeed, freedom of speech is an essential part of democracy. In a democratic country, the press can print whatever they want. However, they are an enterprise dictated by public responses and consumers. I did not see the cartoons in the center of the controversy but if they offend any group of people, perhaps it isn't wise to print them. The Muslim community has a right to respond to whatever offended their values.

Nevertheless, there is no excuse for violence. The Kings were testament to that. They sent out the most effective and the clearest message of protest by their exercise of peace and non-violence against the harshest infliction of brutality. Violent protests have counterproductive results. Violent protests do not educate people about their issues. Instead they draw more negative attention to the protestors and the cause they stand for.

In our time of accelerating globalization, it's not only products and capital that circulate the world. There are mass migrations and diasporas of people, each with different values, cultures, and religion. How do we brace for this imminent ebb and flow of immigration and emigration? Best response is to be more flexible, sensitive, open, and respectful. Most living things are not meant to be static. As studied throughout history, people, nation, country, values, culture, tradition,and religion all change over time. They evolve. America will never be the same and Korea will never be the same because people that make up these great countries evolve. Perhaps the sooner we all realize this and accept change, the sooner we can all just get along.

Read the article in which she is quoted:
Korean Americans Eye Cartoon Dispute Warily
-L2T

untitled

2006-02-12T22:41:00.000-08:00

I am a poet
searching for love in lost places
....a wanderer looking for the truth
....a genius knowing what makes you tick

wanting answers out in the cold
borrowing freedom before I get too old
lend me your warmth now to wear as a coat
give me your love to wrap around me like a cloak

forget that you're somebody and let me ask you anything

tell me all your sorrows
in the morning we'll feed them to the birds
and watch them fly away

I am a friend
needing your soul
...a beggar begging for more

I am a vase
empty without you
-Luna K.

gulf

2006-02-05T23:34:00.000-08:00

So it sort of goes like this. My name is Conor. I just moved here from Madisonville, Louisiana, which means I’m from New Orleans, because no one has ever heard of any other city in that state. Not even Baton Rouge, which is the capital. Everyone here thinks New Orleans is the capital. I am pretty small and skinny, and I tend to let my hair grow into my eyes, which was kind of my thing in Madisonville, but out here there is a whole scene of guys that look like me. I haven’t figured out if I like that or not. It’s nice not to be quite as weird, but apparently, I do need something that stands out, to feel all right. So I got this black cord necklace that has St. Christopher on it, and started wearing it all the time. I found it in the bottom of my bag from home – I think my mom slipped it in, for safe travel. I don’t tend to travel safe.

I work at a café down the street from my residency at The Cat Club. Every Thursday, I play guitar and sing for a handful of people, usually about what I like to call the general disconnect. Funny how people can all relate to that. But they still can’t connect with each other. Playing The Cat Club is quite different from the bar on the Pontchartrain where I used to play. After a show there, I could go outside, cross the street, and stand there looking out over the lake. Everything dark and flat out in front of me, the whole world dark except for the lights from the bar behind me, and the end of my cigarette. When I leave the Cat Club here, I walk out and find myself on Sunset Blvd, and I find it a bit hard to maintain soul out here. It comes off like you’re trying too hard.

So this one night, I swear my guitar started playing itself. I was lying in bed, reading, and I had overdone it on the whiskey, which is generally how I spend my nights. During the day, I like to overdo it on coffee, until I feel like I can take on anything, and start talking like Jack Kerouac, and then get the shakes. But anyway, I heard my guitar being strummed and I jerked my head up, but it was just lying there where I left it, lying on the floor. I never use a stand. I got up and realized my hands and my feet were numb from the whiskey, so I turned off the lights and got back in bed.

Then it happened a few nights later, and now it’s a couple nights every week. And I’ve started to think maybe I am irrelevant here. Maybe the damn guitar doesn’t need me. It makes me feel generally, very alone. I spend a lot of time walking around at night, smoking, and trying to get a feel of the place. Whatever place I’m in. And I look at girls. But none of them look quite like what I pictured, none of them seem quite right. I work with a girl named Carla who has really sad eyes. I’ve written some songs about her. That’s probably as far as it will go.

So this is how it goes, I get a few free drinks at my shows, so I hang out and watch the other guys that go on after me. But I think I’m better than them. My friend Jonathan hangs out with me and agrees, the two of us leaning against the bar, watching all the nightbirds coming and going. Each singer/songwriter goes up there, with his or her small group of friends cheering. Jonathan likes to describe them as “earnest.” He works as a bartender at his parents’ restaurant in Chinatown, and otherwise generally likes to sleep a lot and watch movies. Sometimes I go to his bar and listen to all the Chinese and Korean being spoken around me, and sometimes we go out to see foreign films.

“What do you think it means if you start hearing things, Jon?” I ask him, one night, after my show.

“I think it depends on what you hear,” he says, and downs his drink. “As long as you don’t hear ‘Kill ‘em, kill ‘em all,’ then everything is ohhhkay.”

“What if you hear your guitar playing? Late at night?”

“Then you’re dreaming.”

“No, I’m up,” I say. “Drunk, but always up.”

He thinks about this one for a minute and crosses his arms and squints at me. It’s funny when he does that - he somehow looks like a cartoon character. “Maybe you shouldn’t listen,” he says. “Maybe it’s like a siren, calling out to guys on boats and making them crash.”

“I can’t listen much, it stops right away,” I tell him, and finish the rest of my beer. “Besides,” I say, “I’m not on a boat.”

“You’re right,” he says. “You’re not going anywhere.”

In Madisonville, I was in love with two girls, and now I’m not in love with anybody. I just feel pulled this way and that, and pick up on random signals from every girl I meet. It makes me feel lonelier than you would think. One night Jon takes me to a bar called The Red Lion, which looks like a German bar, and I meet a girl named Jannie who is hitting the cigarette machine, and crying a little, with mascara starting to run.

“Is it broken?” I ask her, and she flings herself around, staring at me with wide blue eyes.

“No, it works fuckin’ brilliantly! It helps you quit smoking!” She sobs and starts digging in her bag. She has on a white top with black horizontal stripes like a sailor, and it is the third girl at this bar I have seen wearing it. I dig out the pack in my pocket and hold it out to her. She stops and then looks embarrassed, and takes one.

“I’m a fucking mess, aren’t I? Why are you being nice to me?”

“I can’t stand to see anyone cry,” I say, shifting my feet. I need another whiskey before I can really consider talking to a girl. She smiles and puts the cigarette in her mouth and scratches her head, messing up a whole mass of dark hair.

“I’m not really crying, I’m just leaking a little bit,” she says. “I can be patched up.”

“That’s good,” I say. “I’m going to the bar, do you want a drink?”

At the bar, she says, “Don’t you ever eat? You’re so thin,” and “New Orleans? Oh my god, that’s fucking brilliant! Why did you come here?” and “I knew you were a musician, you have that look,” and “Are you going to see The Fruitbats? You know they’re playing at The Echo?” And when Jon wants to go, and I can tell he can’t stand her, and I have drunk so much whiskey that my hands are numb again, I give her a hug and she kisses my ear. I feel like every part of me flushes, and I kiss her back and remember two girls in Madisonville, and Carla at work, and I think yes, this is it, this is the right thing, this is what I’m looking for, this is it.

Until we are at The Echo the next week and the band playing is terrible, and contrite, and Jon keeps swearing that if Jannie says “brilliant” one more time, like she’s British, then he is never going to speak to me again. Everything is different out here.

In Madisonville, there used to be a girl named Whitney, who could make me laugh like I have never laughed in my life. It took me right out of myself, which is good, because I tend to wrap around and around myself, real tight. But she moved away. I think there’s still an emptiness there, from when she left. And then after her, there was a girl named Domonique, who was so beautiful, she made me nervous and dizzy, whenever she stood nearby. But she couldn’t stand how much I drank, and wandered around at night. I think it was more the wandering around, the thinking and smoking, that she didn’t like. Maybe they are all sirens.

Jon and I take the subway home in silence, and we both have smokes in our mouths even though we can’t light them. Across from us, an old black woman with grizzled hair sits staring at us, frowning. We are obviously drunk and I realize suddenly I am wearing mismatched socks. She looks overworked and tired, and like she is coming a long way back from visiting someone who doesn’t deserve it. I think about the nonsense she would slap out the back of my head, if I told her my guitar plays by itself, and I feel really tired. She is still staring. Jonathan clears his throat and looks at me.

“Who gave you that necklace?” the old woman snaps, and I put my hand up to the cord around my throat, that I tend to forget is there. “You even know who that is?”

“Yes ma’am,” I say, automatically. “St. Christopher.”

“You know he the patron saint of travel? You know why?” she demands. “You know he carried Jesus across the river? That mean somebody cares about you,” she adds sharply. “That mean you better straighten up.”

Jon starts to laugh and crosses his long arms over his head. “He’s not a bad kid, lady,” he says, smiling. “He’s just an artist.”

“Oh, lord, lord, he’s an artist,” she says, shaking her crazy old head. And I feel like I am looking at her from across the Pontchartrain, a dark, yawning gulf. “An artist!” she says. “You got to be taken care of, don't you? For the rest of your life!” Jon starts laughing harder, covering his face and really cracking up. I hold onto the pendant on my necklace and imagine the songs that could be poring out, right now, through the crack under the door of my small apartment, from my guitar lying on the floor, waiting for me. And I am grateful for St. Christopher, who will get me home safe.

-L2T
*Re-edited a bit, 2/11/06.

untitled

2006-02-02T23:55:00.000-08:00

in an instance like this
leaning against the simplicity of the night end
in silhouette

breathing out a series of long drawn out sighs
and imagine the toxin out of my mouth turning into jacaranda flowers and oak trees

so glad for this moment alone
and the space begins to stretch out around my compact vehicle
like the rolling hills

this is the time of reprieve

"letting up despite great faults"
pollution becomes nothing but fluffy freshness
my sweet purgatory
driving home
-AKZOE

a space story. part one. maybe.

2006-01-27T21:28:00.000-08:00

Shader woke up with a start to the flashing lights of the control panel. The cockpit was dim and quiet around him, and his feet were still resting against the accelerators near the viewer. Nothing had moved. He listened idly for a few moments and then closed his eyes again. He had been dreaming of home, of sitting on the edge of Baymont Ledge, listening to his mother, talking to him, standing behind him. Looking down into the abyss yawning under his feet, while she counseled. Told him quietly not to leave.

He heard it again and snapped his eyes open. The ship’s engine throbbed, just for an instant, and then it faded. It was a sound he hadn’t heard before, and it was ominous, like the dark spot of a ship on the tracker, someone behind them, possibly following. Shader rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know anything about the engine. Mechanics escaped him with a wide birth. He got up slowly and, glancing at the tracking screen for good measure, walked through the doorway into the back, where the smooth steel walls greeted him dully, and faint lights gleamed from the ceiling on either side.

Draft was sleeping in the slide-out bed, in the back room, with the steel door closed. So readily available if Shader needed him. The bigger man was the ship’s engineer, not quick when it came to verbal combat, or often analysis of any kind, but able to bond with almost anything that ran on wires or programming. Shader didn’t understand why Draft hadn’t heard the throbbing, felt it in his very bones, the way he was so in tune with that kind of thing. Why did it wake Shader up and not him? He reached out to knock on the door of the back room, and suddenly felt it again – the ship almost shuddered around him. He froze, and then spun around, feeling panicky.

The door behind him suddenly clanked open, and Shader jumped, cursing in Enja from old habits. Draft stood there, his eyes half open, startled as well. The two of them stared at each other.

“Did you break something?” Draft asked.

“What do you mean, did I break something? Since when have I actually jixxed the controls?”

“Well, what are you doing back here? You want me to fly?”

“You mean, you didn’t hear that? Or feel it?” Shader demanded.

“No, I got up to reece,” Draft said calmly, and marched over to the reece well in the wall. “Drank too much before I went to sleep.”

“Something’s wrong with the engine,” Shader told him. “I keep feeling it shudder, or buzz, or something.”

“Buzz? Is something shorting?”

Shader looked around him, listening hard. “I don’t know if it’s shorting or longing, but it’s doing something strange.”

Draft snorted and then walked over to a small panel in the wall near Shader. “Longing. What are you babbling about?” He banged on the panel and it slid open, revealing a mess of wires.

“Maybe it’s longing for a tune-up,” Shader said idly. He handed him a clip-light from near the ceiling.

“Sure you weren’t dreaming, eh?” Draft asked. “I would’ve felt it if something was going off in here.”

“I thought I was, the first time…”

“Well, maybe it was a re-boosting or something, because sometimes – ”

Draft made a small noise in his throat, and leapt backwards, dropping the light. Shader grabbed the wall as the ship throbbed all around them.

“What is it?” he yelled. Draft snatched up the clip-light and beamed it into the open hatch in front of him. Then he stepped forward quickly, and waved Shader over. They both peered into a recess in the wiring, and saw a pair of violet-colored eyes staring back out. Shader swore.

“A stowaway?!”

A small bright head slowly pushed its way out into view, thin limbs slithering their way out next, until the creature finally put both feet down on the floor in front of them. It was a female, elfish, with cropped, spiky white hair, young, with her clothes in rags hanging on her. They were expensive clothes, however, embroidered and fur-trimmed. She was from an ice planet, probably Ishnin. She was frowning, sharply.

Draft looked at Shader, bewildered. Shader felt his face grow hot – they had dropped onto Ishnin a few days ago, to refuel. This was some runaway politician’s daughter, looking for a free ride. And someone would come to get her.

“…What are you doing on our ship?” he growled. “What the hell is this?”

The girl studied him gravely, as if trying to understand something of far greater concern. “Icka dobeeda Ishnin? Enduvu nee, ji dindo ak.”

“Oh for god’s sake, she doesn’t even speak trade,” Draft said. “Did she say Ishnin?”

“Yeah, she’s some emperor’s daughter! Look at her!” Shader flung his hands up, furious. “We’re jixxed now, man, they’re coming after us!”

The girl was watching him carefully as he spoke, and now she rattled off a stream of accented words in the trade language. “We’re-jixxed-now-man-they’re-gumming-after-us.”

Draft and Shader were startled, and stared at her, a small bright aura in the dim light of the hull around them. She was squinting her eyes now in thought, nodding to herself.

“We’re jixxed now, man, we’re jixxed now.” She screwed up her face, remembering. “Trade,” she said quickly. “Trade-speak. Traders, trade ship.”

“You’re damn right,” Shader told her. “No passengers.”

*who knows where i'm going with this... this is a rewrite of an old half-of-a-novel i wrote in high school.

really

2006-01-24T22:34:00.000-08:00

Aurelie could spin and spin and spin around without ever getting dizzy. She tried it again on the steps outside her friend Brian’s apartment, waiting for him to come down. The world blurred into watercolors around her, faster and faster, and then slid right back into place. There was no catch-up spinning or funny-walking, the way she knew it hit other people. She chalked it up to not having any real sense of orientation in the first place.

“Hey, Lee.” Brian came stumbling down the steps, still patting his pockets to make sure he had everything. He rubbed his eyes, as he did a lot, and peered at her. “How are you, Lee-Lee?”

“All right.” She shoved her hands in her pockets, and her hair swung into her face, the way it always did.

“Are you sure?” he said, seriously. Because there were times when she wasn’t. She nodded.

“How was work?” she asked, and they started walking, both with their hands in their pockets, his scarf hanging down over his coat. Brian always had a scarf.

“Eh, it was okay. They want me to write about that festival last week. I just want to write about Ferriswheel, really.” They reached the corner and he put his hand out to stop her from crossing, even though she hadn’t started to.

“The electronic band?” Aurelie asked.

“Yeah, I like them a lot.” The light changed and they crossed the street. “What you been listening to, Aurelie?”

She smiled. It was a game they played, this – he was very opinionated about music, very cerebral, while she was all emotion. All vibe. “I like the one you gave me, Water From a Book.” He nodded, approvingly. “I think I’m starting to really like programming. I like the scratching, crawling, whirring sounds going on behind the singing.” He started to laugh. “It’s like alien music. Or insects. With someone just singing right over it, like they’re in a different space. It’s great.”

“Insects.” He shook his head, grinning. “I’m gonna quote you in another review soon.”

“Oh, good.” There was a critique somewhere online, during the freelance writing period before Brian got the magazine job, that described a certain recording project as “a deep, reverberating ache,” and that was all Aurelie.

They reached Brightlane then and went inside, the door jingling in that familiar way as they opened it, and there was an empty booth this time, so they sank into the old vinyl seats, contentedly. Brian’s hair was sticking up on one side.

“Your hair has natural product in it,” Aurelie told him and he nodded.

“I should’ve been a punk rocker. It’s too bad I prefer singers that can carry a tune.” He was reading the menu, even though they came here all the time. Aurelie looked out the window and longed for a cigarette. She had never smoked, but she loved the idea of it, just sitting there, cultivating something. The evidence curling up around you in a lovely kind of way.

“Mick Jones could carry a tune,” Aurelie sighed and looked back at the table. “It’s ironic that I have too much common sense to start smoking.”

“Everything about you is ironic, Lee-Lee,” Brian said, putting down the menu. “Other people put it on, you know. Especially lately. But you’re the real thing.” She regarded him thoughtfully. “How was this week?” he asked, just as the waitress approached the table.

“Okay. I made a big pile of clippings and ribbon and photos yesterday, like a nest, and then I sat in it, and drank some sake, and thought about stuff.”

The waitress stared, and Brian burst out laughing. It was the same waitress who always caught scraps of their conversations, and looked slightly unnerved. Her nametag said Lydia.

“…Hi guys,” she said, uncomfortably. There were actual freaks and weirdos that frequented Brightlane. You would’ve thought she’d be used to it by now.

“I make collages,” Aurelie offered, as explanation.

“And I’d like coffee,” Brian threw in. “Black.”

“Oh, okay,” Lydia said quickly.

“Put some milk in it,” Aurelie said.

“No, I hate it with milk,” Brian told her.

“Milk is good for the soul,” she said flatly. Lydia hesitated. Brian broke into a huge grin and rubbed his eyes. He was handsome when he smiled that way, to the point where it took people by surprise. It was something that stayed buried without a trace, otherwise.

“I have plenty of soul, Aurelie.”

“I know, that’s why I like you!”

“She’ll have cream with hers,” Brian told Lydia, and she nodded and darted away.

“Thanks,” Aurelie said with a sigh. “She’s a bit fragile.”

Brian laughed and she glowed at the sound, warming a little. She liked to describe people as fragile, or delicate. Even sensitive. Because she was such a total mess herself. “Did you make anything with all the stuff you were sitting in?” he asked.

“Um, no. I got some ideas though. You know what’s cool, I bought a canvas the other day, like a painter. I’m gonna see what I can do with it,” she told him. He was fiddling with the saltshaker.

“Are you going to paint something?”

“No, I’m just gonna stick some stuff to it, like I do on paper. I just think it’ll add some texture, you know? I don’t know, I could be wrong. I’m going to try to make something to send in to Gloria in a couple weeks, for that exhibit, you know, but I don’t know if it’s the kind of thing she’s looking for.”

“That’s good, though,” he said seriously. “You have an assignment, in a way.”

“Yeah,” she said, nodding. “I have structure!”

They sat there for a moment, because that was a heavy thought. Then Brian asked, even more serious, “Are you still going to sing for me? You are, right?”

“Uh…” Aurelie hesitated. She gripped the edge of the table, already seeing the crowd of staring faces, distorting themselves and blurring. Spinning into watercolors and not sliding back.

“Come on, Aurelie. Come on, I need you for this,” he said, watching her. “I will come and get you, and carry you on my back.”

“All that would do is get me there. It wouldn’t make me sing…”

He got quieter for a second, and regarded the saltshaker again. “You know I can’t do it without you. Your voice makes that song.” The idea of being needed was always attractive to Aurelie, although it was dangerous, slippery, and usually complicated. It was something she wasn’t good at.

“…Okay.” She pulled her legs up and sat Indian-style in the booth, and sighed. “I can’t just make the backdrop?”

“No, Lorna found some footage that works with the set. Some kind of bad art film.” Brian played the vibraphone in a severely minimal electronic band. There wasn’t enough guitar, or programming, actually, for Aurelie, but she was proud of him. And there was a song that he needed backup vocals for. Aurelie had the kind of arresting voice that could not have been more miss-assigned, like a nun with a talent for break-dancing.

“Okay, I said I’ll do it.” Their coffee came and Aurelie’s was a beautiful chocolate color, while Brian’s was a dark, oily black. It made her a bit sad. The warmth of the color was the whole point, really.

“I met this girl at Lorna’s thing the other day,” Brian said, blowing across the top of his mug. He didn’t say anything else and Aurelie glanced up at him.

“I thought you liked Lorna.”

“Well, I do, but…” Brian dropped his head and started rubbing it with his hand, making his hair stick up on all sides. He looked like a starfish. “It’s not really working out with her, you know… I don’t know, it’s weird.” Lorna was hardcore. She was hip and funny, smart and sexy, clever, ironic, all of that. And her hair was bobbed. She was as pretentious as you could possibly imagine and she pulled it off well. Aurelie usually just absolutely stopped talking when she was around. What else were you supposed to do with that?

“She’s just, you know… She really drives me crazy.” He picked up his spoon and stirred his coffee that had nothing in it, and Aurelie felt the longing come off in waves.

“Lorna’s not really a real person,” she told him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” He sounded weary.

“Real people fuck up,” Aurelie said. “And say stupid things and get bad haircuts, and get lost when they’re driving, and drop things and break them.”

“I’m not sure about all that.” They sat in silence for awhile and drank their coffees. Brightlane was a place for these kinds of silences. Aurelie didn’t have a job. She had quit the last one, just another one in a long string of offices and shops and kitchens and places where people who fuck up were definitely not welcome. And people who made collages even less so. She was working on focusing, just trying to focus. Portfolios and exhibits and don’t-start-smoking and don’t-forget-to-feed-yourself and keep-an-eye-on-things-because-you-can’t-remain-jobless-for-too-long.

Maybe I can live with him and work next to him, while he writes his reviews and his music, and puts on records and points out when you can hear the theremin, and messes up his hair. And asks me to sing for him.

“How come it always ends up being about me?” Brian asked, looking up suddenly. “When we come here to talk?”

“Is it?” she said, blinking. “Is it always about you?”

“Hmm. I guess that’s just a dumb guy thing to say.” He drank the last of his coffee and grinned crookedly. “Did I tell you Lorna said you were a fairy?”

“A fairy?” Aurelie was startled.

“Yeah. I asked her one time, ‘What do you think of Aurelie?’ Because, you know, I like to begin conversations that way,” he said.

“Don’t do that.”

“And she said, ‘I like her. She’s really quiet and not really all there. She’s like a fairy.’” He fell silent again and fiddled with his empty mug. He had a habit of seeming really far away, but not quite being able to sit still. Aurelie sat still and imagined diaphanous, lettuce-edged wings unfolding themselves behind her, curling upwards like cigarette smoke. It was nice.

“So neither of us thinks the other is real,” she said, smiling. Brian looked up, and scratched his chin.

“I wonder why that is.”

It was windy when they walked back and Aurelie ducked her head against his shoulder, her hair falling into her face. “I got this guy at work to make fliers for the show…” His voice was monotone and rambling a bit, kind of soothing, like the coffee and Brightlane and the idea of being a fairy. “They’re really good…I’ll make you a copy of his stuff… He sings like…You don’t have to say anything when you’re up there… You know that artist who draws the little girls with big heads?…Lorna said I should wear my blue shirt…”

“Mm hmm…” she said.

“I can tell you’re not listening.”

“I know.” She stopped at the corner and bent down to pick up bits that were fluttering, stuck to the ground among leaves and trash, and blown-around flowers. Brian watched for a second. Then he reached over and held her hair back.

“Aurelie, was there something you wanted to talk about?” he asked.

“No, I just wanted to see you.” She looked up at him and he let go, staring down at her a moment. She held open her hands and in them were pieces of moth wings, gray and fragile. They were fuzzy, almost blurry-looking there. They needed to be stuck to something.

“Wings,” Brian said, surprised.

Aurelie cradled them and smiled. “I need to go work on my collage.”

paint

2006-01-23T00:59:00.000-08:00

welcome to my webzine. i thought it would be fitting to start off with an old horse.

colored lights

2006-01-23T00:45:00.000-08:00

can we go
down through the dark streets
of chinatown or silverlake
where indie ins look down on us
from balconies, crumbling,
with strands of colored lights?
do I know enough to hold your hand?
I have read enough books to take a stand
in conversations deep,
so can we go and see
moving art and innovation?
tiny, nervous installations
of wings and keys and hair
all cut so crookedly that
old locks won’t turn
and bangs are in our faces.
You will start to tell a story
and I will know the end –
will you then give in?
and buy tamales with me, from a sweet, street vendor-man?
for this is an installation
this collage of locked-up bikes;
my eyes are too large
and my expression is too bright.
will you squirm at my absorption
adoration, lack of ennui?
does it matter to your friends
that my hair is blond and curly?
I spill out over edges
splashing into your bowl of soup;
pay attention, do.