Sometimes people think that, because I blog about The ACN and The Monkey, I just love all kids.

Not so.

I actually think some kids are little assholes. True story.

I do adore my two little twerps, of course. And I like other little goofs that I am related to. I like kids that are very nice. You know, the ones that are kind and do good things for others. And I also like kids that... well, need someone to like them.

I am not wigged out by the possibility of having kids someday. And so many of my friends and family have kids, that I am pretty used to that concept as well.

Some stories freak me out a little though. A while back I was talking to a girl I dated when I was 18/19(20?) and she has three kids now. She was telling me how her daughter had broken her collarbone when she fell while DRIVING HER BIKE DOWN THE STAIRS IN THEIR HOUSE.

Hmm.

I can't even imagine that.

Granted, my own kids would more likely be all, "Yeah, howsabout I play a video game involving that, or write you a story about driving a bike down some stairs, motherfucker."

I expect my kids to swear a lot.

I'd be quick to tell you that having little versions of me running around would be GLORIOUS.

That's how I'd say it too, "GLORIOUS!"

I'm a little nuts.

But, little versions of me running... well, lazily strolling around is a bit scary. I was kind of a bastard as a child.

You're shocked. Admit it.

My sister will back me up on this. I would occasionally (by that, I mean frequently) do things just to be a little shit. I could easily take a full day and use it to torture my sister constantly. And I would consider it time well spent.

Not that she was entirely innocent. She ruined every single game of Monopoly that we ever tried to play. AND she assaulted my baseball bat.

Still, I'd be curious to see what a little version of me would be like.

Probably a wide-eyed tyke, exploring the world, taking in his surroundings...

While rocking a tiny baseball cap and stubble.

I wasn't in the mood to write any fiction (or even "fiction") for you characters today. Sooooooo there.

However, I was somewhat in the mood to blog, so I figured that I would take 5 minutes and post whatever was on my mind.

And now I will, you know, if I ever finish this intro.

Yesterday afternoon I was chatting with a friend* and we were discussing a female that had recently come into my life. I said that I wasn't really interested, and she asked if it was because the woman had come on too strong from the start.

I replied that I thought that I had "outgrown" that mindset. I had visions of the games you play when you are younger. When you act aloof, pretend that you forget her name repeatedly, and pay a little extra attention to her cutest friend just to keep her off balance. (Hypothetically speaking.)

I also may have said, "I think that ALL women should show interest in me. Sheeesh."

(Why do people talk to me?)

But, then my friend explained that she wasn't talking about that, she meant that sometimes a person shows too much interest before you know how you feel about them, and that is a turn-off.

At least I think that is what she meant. To be honest, they had started talking about the Colts on the NFL Draft and I drifted out for a while.

[Speaking of, how impressed am I that the Colts passed on fibbing pothead Mario Manningham in the draft? I love that my team values things besides football skills. I dig that they draft more college graduates and good citizens than pretty much every other team. And it is not because it let's me act all self-righteous and brag that my team is superior on AND off of the field. Well, it's not JUST because of that...]

As she began to explain her stance again, I interrupted with, "I like when women show interest in me. I wonder if they are insane, but if they are cute, I roll with it."

She ignored that, understandably, but she too had lost interest at this point and had begun shopping for dresses. Our conversations should be sponsored by ADD medications.

Still, I find myself today with some questions...

How do I feel about women making the first move? (Good!)

Is someone showing too much interest a turn off?

What is "too much" interest?

Did the Colts get the steal of the draft with Michigan RB Mike Hart in the 6th round?

*Please note that my friend didn't like just being called "a friend." I thought about calling her "Sara." Which would have completely hidden her identity, because her name is actually Sarah**.

**Her name isn't really Sarah. We have settled on me calling her "Saucy McMakesfunofmyfavouritesportsteams."

They got along well.
Well...
As well as could be expected.
The egoist and "his" fiery redhead.
"An erection deferred is an erection denied,"
He reminded, to no avail.
winsome equals win some
He hoped.
"Peter Pan is not so complex," she mused.
Frequently.
Yes, he was all hers.
But, chips don't always stay up.
Walls aren't always back-free.
And so...
"Thank you for that," she whispered,
through tears of varying sorts and causes.
"I'd take a bullet for you," he said,
in a voice so sincere that it broke her heart a little.
She stared at the reflection of their embrace,
in the black screen of a bedroom TV she had never seen off before.
Just Because kisses landed gently on her head.
Yes... he was all hers.

Labels: i kinda hate the ending, word doodles

title: "steve the freelance detective who happens to be technically unemployed (not because he is lazy or unskilled, but because there was an unforeseen down turn in the tech industry and that shit could happen to anybody, motherfuckers, so don't be judging.)"

he was just a guy, a simple guy,
who thought everyone can choose to make a stand.
he swung open his bedroom door,
scratching his ass through the hole below his boxers waistband.

he came face to face with an angry man
holding empty egg cartons by the dozens.
"i wanted frittatas, bitch. i have no brother!!!!""
which was actually technically true, cause these dudes were cousins.

freelance detectives often didn't get respect,
or praise for courage during dark hours.
no one sees the careful planning, and time-management
or multitasked masturbation during showers.

and there was a girl, such a girl.
with skin like electric silk.
she was still growing out her bangs,
and got a little gassy from drinking milk.

he adored her because she was smart, sweet,
funny and she played the tuba.
and not, like most expected, because she had
a rack on which you could escape from cuba.

she did not support his freelance detecting ways,
and wanted him to spend more time on craigslist.
she felt that a new job should be his goal
and she didn't really give a shit when things didn't rhyme.

damn.

he poured over the crime section in the paper,
filling it with ink and the notes were copious.
these people needed his help,
and then they'd be less... mopeyish.

fine, technically this would be his first case,
and he expected it to be quite a thrill.
he was going to make the world a better place,
though he'd probably wait until after dr. phil.

Labels: wtf

The wind and snow hit him in the face. Biting. It searched frantically for openings in his clothing. Any way in.

Walking to the party had seemed like a good idea. Earlier. Still, he was already halfway up his block and he had snow in his shoes.

Shoes that made no noise as he walked. No noise on an already silent street. He quickly hummed a little tune. He had no idea why he did it, or what the song was, but it was slightly reassuring.

He had been in a strange head space all day. He found himself reminiscing about past girlfriends, for no apparent reason. He decided that he dated like a sports franchise selects coaches: he was always going for someone completely opposite to the one that came before.

Then he realized that he hated pretty much every second girlfriend he ever had.

He flipped up his collar. It provided very little help in combating the elements.

As he turned right down another street, he noticed the slightly flickering sodium street light. It cast an orange otherworldly glow over the snow-covered everything. It did nothing to help his growing feeling of isolation, he thought, but it certainly was pretty.

The wind whipped up, as if opposed to him enjoying the scene. He turned and walked backwards into the gale for a few moments, looking closely at footprints clearly showing where he'd been.

He turned back to the virgin sidewalk snow ahead.

His face stung.

He passed by a pawn shop and briefly stopped to look at himself in the slightly-warped front window. He pondered whether or not chicks also dig emotional scars

He made a left turn and the wind immediately began to ease. The moon was hinting at an appearance through broken clouds.

He wondered if others were ever jealous of those who long? Of the unrequited lovers. Envious of their focus. Of the fact that they didn't worry about the evil that is indifference and --

He'd have to save that for the walk home.

He was there.

He ran a hand through his wet hair. He put his collar down and his game face on.

He walked through the front door with a big smile.

Before I tell you exactly what would have to go down to cause such a thing to happen, allow me to first give you a little background on film in general. (This will, sadly, require me to take a break from my current activities, which mostly involve creating an interpretive dance to Dire Straits' "Romeo and Juliet" that I can perform without ever getting up from my desk chair.)

I've done a good deal of research on the early days of film. (Read: Skimmed the Wikipedia entry.) And there is much debate as to who exactly invented film. Probably. It seems to come down to Thomas Edison and a couple of French Brothers with funny French names. And since I can't remember how to do French accents on my English keyboard...

Homeboy had lots of time to invent things. Between you and me, Edison wasn't great with the ladies. They'd say, "Hello, how are you?" And he'd reply with,"I invented the quadruplex telegraph." That is NOT going to get you into someone's over-laced corset.

Trust me.

So, he spent much of his time inventing stuff and having masturbatorial fantasies about President McKinley's wife. (Mrrrrowwwrrrrr.)

One evening, the idea for the first movie camera came to him while he was on the toilet. Which, let's face it, is rather strange since he had always been a morning pooper.

And, after a series of accidents that lead to the creation of labradoodles, Facebook and The Penis Pump, he came up with a prototype.

(It's a little known fact that the very first silent films were a series of pornos. The creators had planned to make more, but had disputes over the length of the pizza boy's handlebar mustache and about how many Ms to use in the title cards for "Mmmmmmmmm.")

I kind of ignored the whole point of this piece.

What WOULD have to happen to get me to watch the movie BABY MAMA?

Essentially, the only way I'll watch it is if they don't make any more films.

Like, ever.

EVER.

And unless that happens, I will continue to avoid BABY MAMA as if it was the plague wearing a plutonium sweater vest.

I thank you.

She folded and re-folded her napkin. She rehearsed lines in her head.

I leaned forward, as if that would somehow help draw them out.

No dice.

The deep breaths that were let out slowly. The glistening of pre-tears in her eyes.

I knew what was coming. And I worried about the expression on my face. I wanted to look sympathetic. I wanted to look like I was going through the same pain that she was.

I had some doubts as to whether or not I was pulling it off.

I...

Didn't care.

Harsh, right?

She's a lovely woman. Smart. Pretty. But...

I didn't care. And, what's worse, I couldn't imagine any series of events that would lead to me caring.

Laziness and an aversion to drama are the only things that had kept me from initiating this conversation myself.

I was already feeling a bit of relief. We just had to bring it to the finish line.

Uh oh, I thought. She was starting to lose steam. She had that "we could give it another try" look in her watery eyes.

I gently got her back on track.

At least I tried to be gentle.

Either way, she was again moving towards saying the magic words.

Getting closer.

When something happened that surprised me.

I began having an inkling of a doubt.

I'm not getting any younger. Or prettier. She accepted most of my "quirks." Sometimes even good naturedly.

Maybe my view of relationships had always been too romantic. Too idealistic.

Maybe she WAS the one.

Oh crap...

I was stressing.

But, then I remembered that this bitch had "accidentally" deleted that kickass blog post I had worked so hard on.

"Check, please."

As I walked out my door the other morning, I got hit in the face with a familiar smell.

I couldn't place it.

I must have stood in my driveway for ten minutes, letting it waft over me. Finally it began to come into olfactory focus.

It was the smell of super low tide. Spring tides, I suppose, to be more specific.

Low tide doesn't sound like a smell that would be pleasant. But, to me, it always seems... fresh.

I love the smell of salt water.

It immediately takes me back to being a kid. We'd spend large chunks of our summer swimming off a wharf in a nearby town.

My dad would bring us with him to the wharf. He'd work on his boat, or hang out with his friends. And we'd run a little amok.

It was a different time. It was a tiny little town.

Sometimes it takes a village... of little fuckers to raise themselves.

Future criminals and drug addicts mingled with future health care givers and pillars of society. Older kids watching from the wharf, also including a future criminal and the victim of a future shooting.

None of that stuff seemed possible at the time.

We were having fun and settling things the way kids always settle things.

"Fuck you."

"Fuck YOU."

"I'm telling Dad that you are cursing!"

It was an absolute shitload of fun every single day. Even the days when my dad would finish up his work and go home.

Without us.

My strongest memory from the time, and one I still struggle to describe, was the feeling that I'd get after lying on the wharf for a while, letting the sun brown my skin and raise my temperature to uncomfy levels. Then, without warning, I'd jump up, run the length of the wharf and jump off the end. And then I'd fall.

And fall.

And suddenly I was in a different world.

Bright yellow having given way to a shockingly gorgeous green,

I'd look up at the surface, seeing how the green gradually disappeared. And I'd want to stay in this new world for a little longer. But, the temperature shift between blazing sun and Atlantic Ocean was often jarring and would suck some of the oxygen from your lungs.

So, I would slowly, grudgingly surface.

Then I would plop back down on the wharf and wait until I got too hot again.

Every single time I hit that water it seemed new and surprising to me.


I was just outside and the smell is gone.

And, really, that kind of sucks.

The other day, for the first time in many months, I checked my traffic stats for my blog.

Youch.

I mean, I'm not shocked that it has dropped to almost nothing, you know, since I haven't really been writing on here. And then there was the whole drama queen move of announcing a retirement.

But, still.

In my brain, I imagine people still visiting and foraging through my archives. Literally frolicking in my writing. Throwing words in the air.

"Wheee!"
"Fun!"
"Did this dude really use the phrase 'rampant ass-fuckery'?"

I can't wrap my mind around people moving on to other blogs and forgetting me. Which, really, is a lot like how I feel after a break-up. "She's dating someone else? REALLY? That dude?"

Let's face it, the next dude is always a step down. But, I don't expect these women to fall completely apart without me.

Maybe just become nuns.

I'm mostly kidding.

I've always felt like my blog had a cap on it anyway, as far as potential traffic goes. I don't think it has ever been a typical blog. Lots of fiction writing. Not much personal information shared. Annoying posts about how it isn't a typical blog. Etc.

I don't think I could ever be a blogger that talks about what I'm doing each day. Usually my favourite part of any day is the time when I get to just sit and write. But, how would I blog about that to make it sound amazing? I'm not Megan.

I don't think anyone wants to hear about how I found the perfect comfy spot to sit, with laptop open, listening to Buffalo Springfield's "Mr. Soul" with a pretty muse in mind.

It makes me spectacularly happy though.

I don't think I can properly explain the rush I get when a cool phrase pops into my head and I run for a pad of post-its to try to jot it down before it is replaced in my head with sports statistics and the lyrics to 80s tunes.

I have been around the blogworld long enough to know exactly how I could build traffic. I know the types of posts I can write to get 50+ comments. I understand the old trick of commenting and kissing ass everywhere to get traffic back.

Ehh. That shit isn't me.

I'm content to sit in my little corner of the world and do my thing. I love when people dig it and let me know, but I don't need that.

And lately there has been more Buffalo Springfield and more post-its everywhere.

So... lots of writing in general and nobody reading my blog.

I'm cool with that.

He pulled the baseball cap lower down over his eyes. It was instinct. He didn't even really notice himself doing it. He didn't notice himself doing it because he was listening to her. And answering... something.

There's that other gear. You know? But, you don't really control it. It surprises you, a little, when you actually hit it. Thoughts exploding and fighting to be the first to tumble off of your tongue. You barely recognize your own voice. Animated. Earnest. Probably too earnest, but you don't care.

At the same time you're straining to hear -- and memorize -- every doubloon of spoken treasure that she has to offer.

He reached up -- with both hands -- and made sure that the bill of his baseball cap had just the proper bend.

You can't will yourself into this gear. Stunning sweetness won't do it. Preternatural beauty can't force it. (No matter how much you sometimes wish that it could.)

It's chemical. It's subconscious. It's exciting.

And practiced indifference is no match for it.

He cursed hand-tying societal rules that told him that it was probably a little too soon to propose. You know, having just met her and all.

He watched her throw her head back as she laughed. Real. He lifted his hat, by the bill, with his left hand, as he made sure that his hair was all tucked up inside with his right.

It would be pretty neat, he thought, to have the ability to stop time.

"Portrait of an Artist at 6"

or

"Unc can't put in a decent ponytail, so he stuffed my hair up inside of a baseball cap."

Labels: ACN

Here are the 29 Webkinz that I had to sleep with last night:

Labels: ACN

The ACN has changed her name to "Ladybug."

This is because of her matching Ladybug boots and jacket.


Ladybug is sitting on Unc's lap and sending e-mails from her own account.

And now she wants to tell you something:

sz
5rfcdcx43dfvcv 13w
uyhgbv cssttttttc g lly8,

This is Ladybug's Dora The Explorer ponytail holder:

Labels: ACN

28 pages so far in three days!

The ACN arrives tomorrow for 9 days, so I won't be working on it until the 14th. The ACN doesn't allow writing when I could otherwise be entertaining her. Fair enough.

I remembered that I have 50ish pages of hand-written notes someplace for a hockey screenplay that I planned on writing at some point. These notes should help the process.

Some of the things I found in my piles of paper while searching for hockey script notes:

• Xmas card from 2000 from HRC. (Apparently I was kind of a kick-ass boyfriend. Who knew?)
• Tracings of The Monkey's hand on purple construction paper from when she was three.
• Hand-drawn layout for all three floors of my dream house.
• Outline for buddy flick starring Bruce Willis and Will Smith set on a submarine.

Edit to add:

• A spec script I wrote for The Larry Sanders Show at least ten years ago.
• A short script for a mockumentary about masturbation.
• Detailed outline for a Magnum P.I. script that I wanted to write.
• Post-it note that says "Kissed @ 10 pm Thursday."
  

Labels: ACN, screenwriting

A couple of weeks ago, I got an e-mail from Hope. Our exchange went a little something like this*:

Hope: I have a proposal for you...

Peter: Oh realllllllllllllllllllllly? Colour me intrigued.

Hope: Oh, it's nothing like that.

Peter: Oh. Well, colour me less intrigued. But, you know, sort of listening.

Hope: We should do THIS.

(Peter follows link.)

Peter: Are you kidding me? You think that art can be forced to happen? That you can somehow distill a great work into some kind of McHappy Meal-sized portions? This is a slap in the face to all of the men and women who have lived and died with their writing. Who have poured over every single word. Who have anguished over whether or not they have told their stories to the best of their ability. Our forefathers fought for our freedom and for our right to express ourselves openly. That this "event" exists is an absolute outrage! I simple cannot believe that you would even broach this topic with me. For shame, Hope. For shame.

Hope: Do you want to do it?

Peter: Sure. Fuck it. Sounds like fun.

And so it began...

30 days. 100 screenplay pages.

Rock and roll.

I've decided that my screenplay will be based on this.

And now I should actually do some writing.

[*Please note, this may not be at all how it went down. But, it really was her idea.]

Labels: screenwriting