Despite being grateful of his success as an actor, he still considers himself a writer at heart and wishes he devoted more time to that rather than acting. Due to a busy schedule as an actor, he sadly had to miss contributing to the script for Wes Anderson's The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou (2004), despite that he co-wrote Anderson's 3 previous films.
-IMDB
Because
when you hear the call of your whales,
and you don't follow,
you stop breathing.
Life can no longer be enchanting.
Because
there are a million things that are easier,
that pay better,
that are more fun.
Because
like the man said,
writing is hard.
Because
there are two kinds of people in my world:
the ones that write,
and the ones that don't.
"I can't think of a movie I wish I'd acted in,
but there are movies I wish I'd written."
-Owen Wilson
Darlin', my thoughts are with you.
.
August 31, 2007
August 27, 2007
3 Things That Have Nothing To Do With Each Other
Scott Baio grew up on 10th Avenue and 81st Street in Bay Ridge Brooklyn. I lived 5 blocks away. He's 5 years older than me so it's not like we ran the same circles or anything. But I rode my banana seated Huffy bicycle passed his house every day on my way to Frank's candy store on Fort Hamilton Parkway. I trick-or-treated at the Baio house every Halloween. And I saw Scott a couple of times. 1977? 1978? Somewhere in there. I talked to him once. He was very nice. I remember I told him I really liked Bugsy Malone. He was very gracious about it.
I bowled in a league at Lemark Lanes where his cousin Jimmy Baio bowled. I admit it: I liked him. I talked to him a couple of times at the bowling alley, and I giggled like the girl I was when he'd smile at me. He was on Joe and Sons at the time. It was before he had become very well known on Soap. He was very nice. You could tell he was raised well. He was polite and kind.
I moved out of Brooklyn in 1979.
*******************************
"So I looked in the back of the van, and all I could think of was, thank god I happen to have a body bag."
-Janet
*******************************
We sat at a little table smack in the middle of Bar 89, drinking really fucking good dirty martini's and watching a gorgeous gay couple kiss at the bar. The bathroom there is everything you've heard it was, by the way.
Katrina had just had some ink work done. I felt like a good friend, which is one of the best things I think anyone can be.
Down the block there's a round wall mirror store.
I bowled in a league at Lemark Lanes where his cousin Jimmy Baio bowled. I admit it: I liked him. I talked to him a couple of times at the bowling alley, and I giggled like the girl I was when he'd smile at me. He was on Joe and Sons at the time. It was before he had become very well known on Soap. He was very nice. You could tell he was raised well. He was polite and kind.
I moved out of Brooklyn in 1979.
*******************************
"So I looked in the back of the van, and all I could think of was, thank god I happen to have a body bag."
-Janet
*******************************
We sat at a little table smack in the middle of Bar 89, drinking really fucking good dirty martini's and watching a gorgeous gay couple kiss at the bar. The bathroom there is everything you've heard it was, by the way.
Katrina had just had some ink work done. I felt like a good friend, which is one of the best things I think anyone can be.
Down the block there's a round wall mirror store.
August 21, 2007
Only Users Lose Drugs
It's always there. Just beneath the surface. It's always right there. All you have to do is reach.
But reaching is not as easy as you might think.
He looked into his beer. "Do you have to be fucked up to write?"
I sipped my Jack and Coke. It was 1995. I was drinking Jack and Coke in '95. "I write when I'm fucked up, when I'm not fucked up, when I'm angry, when I'm sad. I don't have to be anything to write. I just have to write."
He was one of those guys that fucks with his eyes opened and the lights on. He swallows as if he's drinking it in every time you whimper. He studies your face when he makes you cum. And in the morning he can't remember your name.
I can't take my eyes off him. He didn't take his eyes out of his beer. "I have to be fucked up to write."
"You like life naked and raw."
He wets his lips. "I'm serious, Very. I've been trying lately. And I can't write a god damned thing unless I'm on something."
I nod in solidarity. "Everybody's on something. Coc. Coffee. Weed. Endorphins. Alcohol. Money. Power. Sex. Love... Chocolate."
I took him to the funeral of a coworker. But he wouldn't go with me to the wedding of a friend. The former he described as "removed enough" and "real." Of the latter, he said, "Too superficial. Too close."
His beer is disappearing. "Why do you think that is?"
Meanwhile, my Jack & Coke seems to be multiplying. "Why is every body on something? Mmmmm, could be because it's how we get passed our inhibitions. Life can get pretty toxic. Sometimes you have to poison the demons. You know what I mean?"
"No."
He carries around a seashell in his pocket. He picked it up on a beach in Cape Cod when he was eleven. He's afraid of the ocean. If you ask him if he believes in God, those are the three things he will tell you. If you can't make sense out of it, that's your problem. Not his.
I rub my bare feet into the carpet. "Sometimes to write, you experiment with thoughts and ideas by freeing up perspective. You alter consciousness so you can reawaken an event."
He finishes his beer.
"I'm not going to condemn getting fucked up to write." I push my bare feet into his. "I like what you write."
He thinks if you cheat at monopoly, you're very good. He thinks if you cheat on your taxes, you're even better. He thinks if you plagiarize another writer's Words, you should be killed.
He looks at me with those deep dark eyes that have studied my orgasms. "So the end justifies the means?"
I touch his hand knowing this is his ocean. "Mostly."
"I hate being judged." He doesn't look away.
I know the difference between weddings and funerals.
Between cumming,
And going.
"You hate being helped even more."
But reaching is not as easy as you might think.
He looked into his beer. "Do you have to be fucked up to write?"
I sipped my Jack and Coke. It was 1995. I was drinking Jack and Coke in '95. "I write when I'm fucked up, when I'm not fucked up, when I'm angry, when I'm sad. I don't have to be anything to write. I just have to write."
He was one of those guys that fucks with his eyes opened and the lights on. He swallows as if he's drinking it in every time you whimper. He studies your face when he makes you cum. And in the morning he can't remember your name.
I can't take my eyes off him. He didn't take his eyes out of his beer. "I have to be fucked up to write."
"You like life naked and raw."
He wets his lips. "I'm serious, Very. I've been trying lately. And I can't write a god damned thing unless I'm on something."
I nod in solidarity. "Everybody's on something. Coc. Coffee. Weed. Endorphins. Alcohol. Money. Power. Sex. Love... Chocolate."
I took him to the funeral of a coworker. But he wouldn't go with me to the wedding of a friend. The former he described as "removed enough" and "real." Of the latter, he said, "Too superficial. Too close."
His beer is disappearing. "Why do you think that is?"
Meanwhile, my Jack & Coke seems to be multiplying. "Why is every body on something? Mmmmm, could be because it's how we get passed our inhibitions. Life can get pretty toxic. Sometimes you have to poison the demons. You know what I mean?"
"No."
He carries around a seashell in his pocket. He picked it up on a beach in Cape Cod when he was eleven. He's afraid of the ocean. If you ask him if he believes in God, those are the three things he will tell you. If you can't make sense out of it, that's your problem. Not his.
I rub my bare feet into the carpet. "Sometimes to write, you experiment with thoughts and ideas by freeing up perspective. You alter consciousness so you can reawaken an event."
He finishes his beer.
"I'm not going to condemn getting fucked up to write." I push my bare feet into his. "I like what you write."
He thinks if you cheat at monopoly, you're very good. He thinks if you cheat on your taxes, you're even better. He thinks if you plagiarize another writer's Words, you should be killed.
He looks at me with those deep dark eyes that have studied my orgasms. "So the end justifies the means?"
I touch his hand knowing this is his ocean. "Mostly."
"I hate being judged." He doesn't look away.
I know the difference between weddings and funerals.
Between cumming,
And going.
"You hate being helped even more."
August 16, 2007
The Word Was Release
This isn't the story I had intended to write. This isn't what I meant to say.
This is just what came out. This is the story that came. This is what I wrote.
This is what I wrote.
This isn't what I wanted, he said. This isn't what I hired you to write.
I know. I know, and I can write a different story. I can come out with a story you want.
This isn't what I wanted, he said. This isn't what I wanted to say. But god, this is what I needed to hear. This, is what I needed to hear.
I didn't know. I didn't.
You must have, he said. You had to have known. Or how else could... how else...
If a secret revealed, it was in the Words you chose. Your explanation. Your direction. If a secret revealed, you revealed it. You told me. You Worded the task.
He looks at the work. He looks at the Words. He points at one. He remembers he used it, several times, in the hiring. Several times, in the task.
I just took it and ran.
If a secret revealed,
you revealed it.
In the Words.
The Words you gave.
I just took it and ran.
I just used your directions.
I ran with the Words.
And this is what came.
This is what happened.
This is what I wrote.
This is just what came out. This is the story that came. This is what I wrote.
This is what I wrote.
This isn't what I wanted, he said. This isn't what I hired you to write.
I know. I know, and I can write a different story. I can come out with a story you want.
This isn't what I wanted, he said. This isn't what I wanted to say. But god, this is what I needed to hear. This, is what I needed to hear.
I didn't know. I didn't.
You must have, he said. You had to have known. Or how else could... how else...
If a secret revealed, it was in the Words you chose. Your explanation. Your direction. If a secret revealed, you revealed it. You told me. You Worded the task.
He looks at the work. He looks at the Words. He points at one. He remembers he used it, several times, in the hiring. Several times, in the task.
I just took it and ran.
If a secret revealed,
you revealed it.
In the Words.
The Words you gave.
I just took it and ran.
I just used your directions.
I ran with the Words.
And this is what came.
This is what happened.
This is what I wrote.
August 14, 2007
The Facts of Fiction
He hands me back the laptop. "But that's not how it happened. "
I sigh. "You're letting truth get in the way of a good story. (Dorothy Parker)" I'm tired. I take the laptop and close it, putting it down on the floor next to me. I'm tired, and we've had this discussion 3 or 4 times. And I'm tired.
I close my eyes as I rest my chin against my knees. "I don't know what you want from me, Peter. You write it your way which is just this fact sheet really. And it reads like shit. So you hire me to ghost it into something good. And I do. But then you can't take it. What is it that you want?"
His voice is quiet, but he speaks. "I want you to write it."
"I do. I write it. But you can't consent to that. You keep reducing it back to just a documentation. And I don't know why. What is the problem? Will someone sue you if you put your perspective on these facts?"
"No. No, it's not that." He shakes his head as he tries to gather himself. He lays back on the floor and wipes his face. He has to give himself permission to tell me. To confess. In the quiet. "If I write it from my perspective, I feel like I am erasing him."
"Who?"
"My father."
I sit up on the floor. "Is that who this is about? The painter in this story is your father?"
His silent consent is the loudest thing he's ever said to me.
I pull the laptop back into my lap. I open it back up. I reread in the quiet consent.
He's quiet as I read, no longer tired. No longer without consent. No one is tired. Especially the consent. Or the quiet.
"Peter, your father was an artist. He saw the story in the world. And he painted it his way. He had a vision. If he was merely documenting everything around him, he would have taken photographs. But he didn't. He didn't document what he saw; he interpreted. He took it in and put it back out there into the world his way."
He's watching me. His eyes are open, and he sits up.
"I think he knows you have to tell the story with your perspective. You're doing the same thing he did. You're following in his footsteps."
He looks at me as if a light has gone on. Someplace in the darkness.
He pulls the laptop back and begins to type.
He didn't need me to write it after all. All he needed was permission.
Everything is fiction.
There is no such thing as objective truth where humans are concerned.
In the quiet of consent there's a story. There's a story.
Superimposed. Misunderstood. Predetermined. Engorged.
"Can you read my mind?
Take a good look at my face."
-38 Special
I sigh. "You're letting truth get in the way of a good story. (Dorothy Parker)" I'm tired. I take the laptop and close it, putting it down on the floor next to me. I'm tired, and we've had this discussion 3 or 4 times. And I'm tired.
I close my eyes as I rest my chin against my knees. "I don't know what you want from me, Peter. You write it your way which is just this fact sheet really. And it reads like shit. So you hire me to ghost it into something good. And I do. But then you can't take it. What is it that you want?"
His voice is quiet, but he speaks. "I want you to write it."
"I do. I write it. But you can't consent to that. You keep reducing it back to just a documentation. And I don't know why. What is the problem? Will someone sue you if you put your perspective on these facts?"
"No. No, it's not that." He shakes his head as he tries to gather himself. He lays back on the floor and wipes his face. He has to give himself permission to tell me. To confess. In the quiet. "If I write it from my perspective, I feel like I am erasing him."
"Who?"
"My father."
I sit up on the floor. "Is that who this is about? The painter in this story is your father?"
His silent consent is the loudest thing he's ever said to me.
I pull the laptop back into my lap. I open it back up. I reread in the quiet consent.
He's quiet as I read, no longer tired. No longer without consent. No one is tired. Especially the consent. Or the quiet.
"Peter, your father was an artist. He saw the story in the world. And he painted it his way. He had a vision. If he was merely documenting everything around him, he would have taken photographs. But he didn't. He didn't document what he saw; he interpreted. He took it in and put it back out there into the world his way."
He's watching me. His eyes are open, and he sits up.
"I think he knows you have to tell the story with your perspective. You're doing the same thing he did. You're following in his footsteps."
He looks at me as if a light has gone on. Someplace in the darkness.
He pulls the laptop back and begins to type.
He didn't need me to write it after all. All he needed was permission.
Everything is fiction.
There is no such thing as objective truth where humans are concerned.
In the quiet of consent there's a story. There's a story.
Superimposed. Misunderstood. Predetermined. Engorged.
"Can you read my mind?
Take a good look at my face."
-38 Special
August 08, 2007
I'm Feeling Pretty Good Tonight
LD - How about him?
Me - Too needy.
LD, looking across the bar - Okay, how about him?
Me - Are you high? He looks like a serial killer.
LD, sipping her beer - The bartender?
Me - He thinks he's who-the-hell-he-is. I hate that.
LD - Hey. Just because you're husband rocks doesn't mean you can dis every guy I like.
Me - I've always been good at this. Trust me. My teen heart throb was Matt Dillon. See, with few exceptions, I started picking great men when I was only 13 years old.
LD - You suck.
Me - Who was your teen heart throb?
LD - Fuck you.
Me - It was Leif Garrett. Wasn't it.
LD, glaring - I hate you, and the perfect penis you rode in on.
"I found a sweet Madonna
With a bible in her hand.
She's waiting
Anticipating
For someone to save her soul.
Well I ain't no new messiah,
But I'm close enough for rock and roll. "
-38 Special
Me - Too needy.
LD, looking across the bar - Okay, how about him?
Me - Are you high? He looks like a serial killer.
LD, sipping her beer - The bartender?
Me - He thinks he's who-the-hell-he-is. I hate that.
LD - Hey. Just because you're husband rocks doesn't mean you can dis every guy I like.
Me - I've always been good at this. Trust me. My teen heart throb was Matt Dillon. See, with few exceptions, I started picking great men when I was only 13 years old.
LD - You suck.
Me - Who was your teen heart throb?
LD - Fuck you.
Me - It was Leif Garrett. Wasn't it.
LD, glaring - I hate you, and the perfect penis you rode in on.
"I found a sweet Madonna
With a bible in her hand.
She's waiting
Anticipating
For someone to save her soul.
Well I ain't no new messiah,
But I'm close enough for rock and roll. "
-38 Special
August 04, 2007
You Always Did That
"And the music make her wanna be the story.
And the story was whatever was the song,
What it was."
-Dire Straits
Because I see you
in note and glory.
Sitting there. Sitting still.
It was a different country
and time wasn't leaving.
You were so scared of me.
We made something happen slowly
I take Columbus Ave when I make my way.
When I make the trek. I always do.
I always make.
People saw your anger
And sadness.
No one knew how lost you were.
I felt like a detective,
or a spy,
or a thief stealing knowledge
when I saw the stomped coffee cup on top of the mailbox. I knew it was yours.
Your eyes were clear, and no where near.
I don't know what you remember.
I don't pretend you miss me.
I don't mind if you never loved me.
I just want to be the ghost
That haunts you
Every time you walk Columbus Avenue.
And the story was whatever was the song,
What it was."
-Dire Straits
Because I see you
in note and glory.
Sitting there. Sitting still.
It was a different country
and time wasn't leaving.
You were so scared of me.
We made something happen slowly
I take Columbus Ave when I make my way.
When I make the trek. I always do.
I always make.
People saw your anger
And sadness.
No one knew how lost you were.
I felt like a detective,
or a spy,
or a thief stealing knowledge
when I saw the stomped coffee cup on top of the mailbox. I knew it was yours.
Your eyes were clear, and no where near.
I don't know what you remember.
I don't pretend you miss me.
I don't mind if you never loved me.
I just want to be the ghost
That haunts you
Every time you walk Columbus Avenue.
August 02, 2007
7 Things You Don't Know
1 - I eat most of my meals at home with chopsticks. But when you asked, I said I didn't know how to use them because I didn't feel like teaching you.
2 - You said you were straight edge. That's why I went after you: the challenge. But you folded so quickly that it took all the fun out of it. Still, that was the only reason.
3 - When I gave that speech at the college I could hear you laughing. I know you were trying to embarrass me, but I believe you only embarrassed yourself.
4 - That night you stormed out of Barnes & Noble a total stranger asked me why the hell I put up with you. He called you a "skinny immature asshole." I didn't defend you.
5 - I know it was you that stole the paper and envelopes out of my office.
6 - I never liked you. Not even a little.
7 - You broke up with me in a note you left on my Jeep the day after my father died. I only read the first few lines. And then I threw it away. I still don't know what you had to say for yourself. And I still don't care.
2 - You said you were straight edge. That's why I went after you: the challenge. But you folded so quickly that it took all the fun out of it. Still, that was the only reason.
3 - When I gave that speech at the college I could hear you laughing. I know you were trying to embarrass me, but I believe you only embarrassed yourself.
4 - That night you stormed out of Barnes & Noble a total stranger asked me why the hell I put up with you. He called you a "skinny immature asshole." I didn't defend you.
5 - I know it was you that stole the paper and envelopes out of my office.
6 - I never liked you. Not even a little.
7 - You broke up with me in a note you left on my Jeep the day after my father died. I only read the first few lines. And then I threw it away. I still don't know what you had to say for yourself. And I still don't care.
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