Dear Me, I'm sorry...

I know you need some down time, Me. I know you're tired and stressed and really just want to golf and read the stack of comic books you bought two weeks ago but haven't touched. I know, Me. You don't have to tell me.

Here's the thing. We're gonna have a busy couple of weeks, you and me. Directing a webseries, writing another short film, finishing a couple of songs, and cutting a reel for our wife. Tell you what: I'll handle those.

Me, you need to concentrate on preparing a pitch for that rewrite job, attacking the Western notes when they come in, and landing that other writing assignment. You know the one.

Between us, we'll carve out a few hours to have a social life before we leave for Europe. Gotta say goodbye to our friends in appropriate, don't forget us, ways.

We've got a good thing going, Me. We're working with some very talented people on solid projects. This is going to set us up well for our return this fall. You just have to trust me, Me. Together, we can do this.

Yours,
Me... err...

PS: You're handsome.

Whiskey, you're the devil

I got drunk again. It was a joyous happening. Friends and wife were there and the liquor refused to stop flowing.

I drank whiskey. I drank gin. I drank beer and began again.

Our party went to an arcade because the mini-golf course was closed. Brian and I shot Terminators with frighteningly realistic plastic assault rifles. He was wildly impressed with my 40% accuracy against the mechanical buggers. I said nothing about his 37%, simply nodded coolly.

We rode small, garishly painted motorcycles bolted in front of video screens. I lost to Brian and Jill and felt fine about it; she was mostly sober and he owns a real-life motorcycle complete with leather jacket. My hands were tied and numb from the Evan Williams.

Skee ball was surprisingly doable while inebriated, especially compared to drunken Dance Dance Revolution. I took my turn on the tiny dance floor, and it was mercifully brief. Then my wife, all pixie hair and flashing eyes, dropped her tokens in the hefty techno-spewing machine. She was (mind, I was watching through hops and love) the most graceful thing I've ever seen. Alecia, I picked through all my swirling thoughts, was no doubt borne of a clan of Irish faeries who taught her to jig and reel in the deep green forests where no man may walk. It was a nice picture I'll not soon forget.

Back at Brian's, we played Murderer and Alecia espoused various philosophical leanings while swearing like an educated, creative sailor. I awoke at 6am on the floor, feeling relaxed.

Sorry, liver.

Turtle of Love (explicit)

This happened a couple months ago. It was my first (and to date, only) songwriting session with the lovely and stylish Jill. She has the astounding ability to intimidate everyone at a Hold 'Em table with just a novelty lunchbox. She also, which pertains more to this post, owns a turtle.

As I watched the little guy (or girl...how would one begin to tell the difference?) slog around his ridiculously oversized aquarium, a song title popped into my head. Bless Piwi, she owns an electric guitar and an iPhone for recording purposes, so we worked this out in a short amount of time. Time so very well spent.

One day Jill and I will finish this song and start a wonderfully indie and hip rock band, but it's difficult insomuch as most of our interactions revolve around poker; the playing of or talking about.

My summer self

This is as good a time as any to start a blog, I suppose. This summer Alecia and I are going to France for work. We'll be gone two months and return sunburned and exhausted. But before France, we're going to Spain. One week. My first overseas trip.

I have an image of my summer self. I'm sitting at a small table beneath the shade of a wooden trellis. In front of me is a half-empty bottle of wine and a squat, stemless glass. In my image, I can smell- no small feat- the red liquid that already stains my travel-dusted shirt. I'm scribbling in a moleskin. For the first time in three years, what I'm writing isn't an attempt at money. It's not going to go out to a slew of producers for immediate or studied refusal.

I'm writing a book.

I'm writing the book I've been meaning to write since I began calling myself a writer under my breath. It's a beautiful book about a motorcycle and a lost father and the soul of America.

Around me the Spaniards, some fat with slicked-back, thinning hair, some lithe and graceful and bosomy, drone on. It's like classical music, listening to them. I don't understand a word they're saying, so I can't get sucked into their lives. It's just a beautiful murmur.

I finish my work for the day and drain my glass as my wife comes to find me.

That is my image.

Here is the likelihood: I will drink a lot of cheap booze, stress over a script, and a week later, go to work. Both are fine ways to spend a summer.