Friday, November 16, 2001

This is Nessesary...

11:24 p.m. The window is wide open, and Tool's Undertow spews it's unabashed self-indulgent, angry bile from my C.D. player. Tool is, and has been my preffered winter music of choice since I picked up Undertow my second year of college. I haven't broken the album out since last December, and now I remember why. Haunting, beautiful, eerie, intense; it sums up nicely my take on winter--a dark, cold, desolate string of days where everything takes on a gray quality, and my world seems claustrophobically small.

Of course, if it wasn't 65 degrees, sunny, and a 6 mile visiblility today, this post would make a lot more sense. But dammit, it should be winter.

Ciao

Oh...by the way, you can get a date off the Weather Channel website now...heh...wonder what you'd talk about.
The Souls that Try Men's Times

Here's how I feel about work today.

It's November, still beautiful outside, and I'm stuck in my wee office, staring at this bleedin' machine. However, I've got all my limbs (as my grandmother was often quick to point out) and a roof over my head (as my mother was quick to point out), and I'm expecting some good news today. I don't know what that is--but dammit, I'd better get it.
Had a long talk with my old bud David Garver last night.

Verbosity, denial, and all, it was still good to talk to him. He's a good long conversation once every couple of months or so kinda friend. And he's been doing well for himself, got a lead part in a low budget festival picture that may be out on video soon, perhaps even get a limited run, so that's good. And he's thinking of moving to LA. This mass migration to LA frightens and intrigues me. I'd almost go myself, if I didn't think the place was going to fall into the ocean soon.

Anyway, off to more collection calls. I'll probably write when that good news comes in. Hopefully it'll be really cool.

Ciao

Thursday, November 15, 2001

Warrior Shot The Food

Things that make you go 'fuck'.

Bad news seems to come in droves these days, good news--not so much. Yesterday's "cloudy with a mid-afternoon likelyhood of shitty" started about three-thirty, when I called Auman to find out when the Victor meeting was--only to find out it was last night at 8, even though I had not been notified of this before. I HAD, however, made plans with Hilary, who will probably never speak to me again for cancelling said plans, as I had to e-mail said cancellation, and pray to the Gods that she got it in time. I may never know.
Then I talk to a certain actor in the Victor show, who now wants to be paid for doing said Victor show. I won't name said actor, but prolly won't be hard to figure out who it is. Said Actor initally sprung this on Auman a few nights ago (another event I was not updated on--such is life in Kansas City) and when Said Actor told me I thought Said Actor was joking, and I'm still not sure if they're serious, but if so, we could be in a whole heap of shit. While I understand on some levels why 'Said Actor' wants to be paid, I cannot justify paying 'Said Actor' without feeling obligated to compensate the rest of the cast, who work equally as hard, and we can't afford to do that. We've managed to save up enough money to spend a little on the show, but it's not going to be enough to pay for the space for three nights, pay for sets and costumes, AND pay everybody. I wish it was, but it's not.
I'm getting really tired of it--the egos and the bullshit. It's supposed to be fun. It started out fun, it got kinda un-fun, then it got fun again, and now it's back to the un-fun. I'm tired of the infighting and the egos, the passive agressive attitudes, and the negativity. The show is always chaotic, yes, but it's turned from the exciting fun kind of chaos, to this petty squabbling crap, and I don't like it. I dunno, maybe it's time to move on. Maybe it's time to end Victor. It kills me to say that, because I think it's done a lot of good for a lot of people, but I don't want to feel like it's something done out of habit, rather than out of joy. And this, so far, has felt like habit. And that makes me sad.
Then I go over to the folks (drove the old man to the airport at 6 this morning, possibly why I'm waxing so philisophical), and find out my cousin, who had a cancer battle about two years ago (she's three years younger than I am), as well as an eating disorder, may have cancer again. They found a lump under her rib. She barely survived the first battle, I don't know if she can make it through the second. She's my beautiful, smart, funny, slightly bossy, wonderful Jewish American Princess cousin, and she may be dying. Her bah mitzvah, in 88 or 89, was the first time I had a one-night stand (or as much of a one night stand as one can have in junior high--namely taking a walk and making out) with Sarah Schlossberg, on the beach (she later became a lesbian, apparently.). We used to make videos and eat Pop Tarts until we were sick. I don't mean to start the dirge early, but I'm worried. Worried, and absolutely unable to do anything.

Straw by straw it falls.

If anybody has any good news, I'd dig hearing it right about now. Otherwise, I'm clockwatching till 3 when I can go home and curl up the fetal position, and curse the fates till I sleep.

Ciao

Will

Wednesday, November 14, 2001

Mo Money Mo Money

I've been making collection calls. It sucks.
Ode to a Tall Girl At Harpo's

My God Girl,
You are so tall.
How did you get to be that tall
I mean, Jesus Christ,
I've seen some tall people
but you take the cake
Girl
Tall Girl.

Oh Tall Girl,
you look so good
With long legs and perky breasts
(Tall girl breasts ain't so big, but she don't slack none, either)
and that tall girl ass that serves
more as a leg/back connecter
than a more full feature model.
Daddy took you to the orthodontist
Cause that smile ain't cheap,
but the rest was from God--
Cause Damn! You
Tall
Girl.

Oh Tall Girl,
You so anti-establishment
With your salon
mussed hair and leather jacket
and tall, tall blue jeans that smaller women would get lost in
and never escape from.
Even your cigarettes are tall--
The tree next to you is jealous
my Tall
Tall
Girl.

Oh Tall Girl,
Why did you have to start talking?
With that smoke and whiskey voice
that will only be sexy for a few more years
and then fade
to a harsh rasp
that you use to lash out at the little people
Terrible fate
For my Tall
Tall
Girl.

Oh Tall Girl,
Do you ever stop talking?
You ramble on and on
with a banshee's rasp,
and a hyenia's laugh
about how lame your co-workers are
You were so much better
in silence, but it is not your fate
and so before our tragic love could begin
it ended,
And I cry out to God,
And Dave,
Let's bail, man, For there is nothing left
for me
and Tall
Tall
Girl.

Tuesday, November 13, 2001

Another pointless exercise

Alright...top five desert island video games assuming I have electricity and a cable modem conenction (just go with it)

1. Half-Life/Counter-Strike/Team Fortress (I know it's 3 in 1 but it's mods)
2. Civilization 3
3. Madden 99 (Yes, 99...no franchises, but I can kick ass at the run on it, so lay off)
4. Defenders of the Crown (Old Amiga piece of shit game, but I loved, and do love it.)
5. The Sims (Dark horse, but it's addictive, and since I'll be stuck on the island, might be nice to look at those Sim women showering, and what not....)

There it is. Don't like it, tough. Do better.
What I'm paid 11.50 an hour for...

Thought you'd all be impressed by this e-mail I just wrote concerning a delinquent exhibit account--


"Not to rain on anybody's parade, but he told me he was going to the board
concerning these debts back in July, when I first began collecting for the
FY 01 past dues. Since then I have been shuttled between him and Becky
Wilcox, both of whom have assured me the money is coming soon, but so far,
no checks have been sent. I understand Mr. Hatch is on the advisory panel
and that puts us in a difficult situation, however, I would be hesitant to
issue further contracts until some sort of payment plan is arranged and
adhered to."


...hesitant to issue further contracts until some sort of payment plan is arranged and adhered to? Wow...I'm turning myself on here.


More better Fresh!

The new "Get Your War On" page is up. Check it out...some lovely stuff in there. "Dick Cheney, I'm calling you out, you oil industry bitch motherfucker!"

That's funny shit.

What is not funny shit is last night, when I, having completed eleven pages of my novel, attempted to celebrate by turning on a C.D. on my computer, and lost everything. I'm still in shock and trying not to think about the pain, but perhaps this is a sign from God. Mayhaps I should wait till next year on the whole novel thing, and just kick out a screenplay or a play by the end of November. Very do-able, very easy, and more my style. I fucking hate novel writing.

Ciao for now.

Neddie

Monday, November 12, 2001

again with the Google...

here's the second google search engine hit...heh...check it out...really...tis funny.
It begins

Alright...here's the first page o' the novel.

Return of the Rain Dogs
by Ned Niederlander
Che liked his post at right field. It didn’t require much work, ket him off the bench, and afforded a great view of the action surrounding the game. By virture of his memory, and the fact thtathe was the only sober one at most of the games, the other players in the outfield looked to him for positioning.
“Let’s move in, move in!” he’d yell, or “This guy hits the shit out of it, Paulie, move to the track!”
Paulie, would just nod sagely, and hold his postion.
Right field was Che’s favorite, not only because of the power of calling the outfield (and yes, he did enjoy the power, no shame in that, right?) but also for the view of the field, of the other fields in the complex, of the game itself. The pitch, the swing, the hit, the miss, the pop fly, the line drive, the yells of the fat, bored, Midwestern housewives yelling “Strike him out, Ray!” only in their flat Midwestern drawl it sounded more like “Strike heem out, Ree.”
In short, “Che” Tito O’Malley loved the game of softball. Loved it in a way that was different and separate from anything else he loved. He liked computer games, he loved literature, he loved sex and good porn; but softball transended all of that. He was passionate about the game. Che was smart enough to realize his was a childish, selfish, and ultimately stupid passion, but goddamn—
Che fucking loved playing softball.


1 down...199 to go...

I'm gettin' there...