Coffee Shops

It’s Sunday. It’s almost 1 PM, and I’m out at Grounded Cafe, a coffee shop and internet cafe on Ventura Blvd. I found it with the Yelp application on my cell-a-ma-phone, and I decided to give it a try. There is another place with free wifi and pay coffee recommended by the program: it’s called Crave. I drove past it. It looks very busy and bohemian, and there wasn’t any street parking within five blocks. So, maybe next weekend. Maybe never.

I am trying to reduce the cost of these writing expeditions by making them coffee-only, or snack-only, instead of full-meal. Perhaps I could do that at Norm’s, but it feels wrong. It feels like I’m taking up a profitable booth. This is likely ridiculous, since the booths are rarely even close to filled. But coffee shops are places where you are supposed to do this sort of work.

I guess this is who I’ve become. My binary opposite. Someone who writes in public.

Necessity makes for strange bedfellows, even when we’re sleeping alone.

The coffee-shop man just offered me the wifi password, which was very nice. That means, at least in my weird psychology, that he doesn’t mind me using my own computer, rather than renting his by the hour.

I also really like my high seat and high desk, over by the window. Crave may have a hard time competing with that. Oh, and the coffee is good; intensely sweet mocha.

Sprinkled throughout this post are some pictures from my visit. Can you guess who the celebrity is, in the painting? I can’t! But I know it’s a celebrity! They said so!

Yesterday, writing-wise, I made an unusual sprint forward. Unexpected, and so out-of-the-subconscious, I honestly can’t remember much of what I came up with. Good thing it’s all written down.

There I was, doing my usual tinkering around the edges, when my mind turned around, made a dash – straight for the wall – and rather than smashing into it, it ran up it. Right up it, and then right off, leaping from rooftop to rooftop.

I don’t know what that was all about, or how long that stuff had been brewing, waiting to come crashing, boiling-over. but there it was, and those are the moments I’ve been missing.

Clearly, they only happen when I’m running at that wall every stinking day.

Similarly, I was cooking dinner last night, and I’d just finished warming the cassarole dish to put the chicken in, as per the recipe. I took the dish out of the oven, and turned toward the counter-top. I could put it down on the countertop, you see, because it wasn’t all that hot.

 

I touched the dish to the countertop surface, and I remember a small hiss, and then an instantaneous crack, and then, the dish completely exploded. Shards of glass flew in every direction. all with surprising force, and several of those directions were precisely where I was standing.

The glass was cool enough for a countertop, but counters and people are made of considerably different materials. A short length of glass landed on the back of my hand, and I have a red shadow-image of it burned there now. I was fortunate that none of the glass found my face and eyes to be a welcoming destination.

There were invisible, tiny shavings and slivers of glass everywhere.

Luckily, no one was hurt. Alli didn’t really bother to look up from her Facebook game. Barb remained completely asleep. And I was able to finish the meal by working around the mess. The food came out pretty well.

However, the suddenness of that explosion, and the power of it, really stays with me. It came to mind when I was reflecting on the sensation that I had yesterday, when story started creating itself, starting sorting points out, and all I had to do was hold on with my oven mitt. A hiss, a crack, and an explosion.

Now I’m going to go read it over.

Who wants to start a betting pool regarding how disappointed I’ll be?

An Armor of Hugs and a Sword of Magic Faery Wings

It’s wonderful to see how short the journey is from despair to hope. It can happen in a touch, in a word, in a glance. It’s almost enough to make one forget how quickly the return trip could be made.

Today I got to work late. Alli got a flat tire last week, and her car was in the shop today. She borrowed my car in the morning, to run a few errands, and then intended to take me to work. Of course, somewhere in Century City or Studio City or some other Well Outta Walking Range City — she locked her keys in the car. I couldn’t come and pick her up, because, after all, it was my car. Jared drove out to pick me up, and so, my work day was cut an hour short. Too much time when I look at my bank account, but too little time when I evaluate my mood just prior to that 7:00 PM whistle time.

There are new floors at work. They’re black tile and already scuffed. It all smells of adhesive and melted plastic. It’s hideous and cold.

And today was cold and damp — which was a pleasant change of pace. I got to wear my winter coat, which I haven’t done in two years, not since I was in Las Vegas, hanging Christmas decorations. It felt nice to wear layers. I like that feeling. Like an armor of hugs. Which, I think, would ALSO be a good name for my Memoirs.

Sort of like the note I saw scribbled on my coworker’s pad today… “The boy who pooped rainbows.”

I’m looking forward to painting a few walls in my apartment, for The Small Talker. I’m hoping that Barb will help me do so. And Alli’s birthday is Thursday. I’m hoping her gift arrives in time; otherwise, I will have to postpone her birthday until Friday.

Forcast for Tonight, Likely Continuing Through Tomorrow

I am going to get rip-roaring, riotously, ridiculously drunk. I am going to get vengefully drunk. I am going to drink until my ancestors pass out.

I have sent out invitations to everyone I know — join me in a night of old-fashioned, flagrant irresponsibility — right after I finish work and walk the dog. But they’re, to the last, afraid to follow me off this masochistic precipice. I will repel alone into the mouth of the cavern.

Tonight, I plan to post the words, “Don’t jump! It’s not worth it!” on absolutely all the Myspace profiles I can find. It should really confuse people.

Wonderous Discovery

>I recently find that I am frequently talking to myself, just slightly aloud, just slightly under my breath. Sometimes, I just mouth the words. This is clearly the beginning of my unraveling. I’m a really, really excited about it.

Too Much in the Midst of It

I wonder if I’d be happier if I wrote more. I wonder if I’d write more if I ate more. I wonder if I’d weigh less if I exercised more. I wonder if I’d have more energy if I exercised more. I wonder if I’d write more if I had more energy. I wonder if I’d be happier if I wrote more.

The boredom of work is exhausting me. I can’t focus in the face of all that tedium and distraction, mixed in such perfect balance.

I went to the free 11:00PM improv comedy jam at the UCB Theater on Monday. Mel, from work, was there, and he got called on stage to perform. Robin Williams was also there, and he was on stage, improvising ridiculously with folks from the neighborhood. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time.

Jacobson

I had a very nice date. She probably didn’t. Hi, have we met? I’m an idiot. I felt very cloudy. I’m not sure what I said. I felt like I was losing her attention. I couldn’t get her to open up more than once or twice, and yet, I felt rather comfortable with her, looking in her eyes, which is rare. Very rare. I do so much better with women I’m not interested in.

When I first got there, the restaurant she’d suggested was closed. So very closed, I imagined it was out of business. This was a prank. I walked up and down the street, in the rain, with my duck-head umbrella, hoping I wasn’t getting stood up, almost certain I was. This was a mean prank. I sat in the car listening to NPR. At 8PM, Talk of the Nation started — the show whose transcripts I spend two hours a day checking for errors. I got out to check for her one last time, and there she was. I closed the door, and locked my keys in the car.

Alli earned her keep and brought me the spare set of keys. In the middle of the date. Awkwaaaarrrrrrd.

It turns out that my date once randomly hooked up with someone from Hampshire college, in New York, in her senior year of highschool. It was Henry. I felt very cloudy. I couldn’t remember his last name. Stirling and Keely could.

I botched a chance to get her cellphone number, and I botched the goodbye, never pressing for more than a hug. I felt very cloudy, and I was surprised it was ending so quickly.

When I came home, very cloudy turned into desperate to vomit. Not nerves. Illness. I spent the next three hours praying to puke. Trying so hard to throw up. About twenty minutes ago, I finally did it. A lot. And I feel so much better. Yes, I puked in utter joy.

I’m calling in sick tomorrow. It’ll be my first time since arriving in LA. And right now, I’m gonna go puke a little more. I hope.

Summary: I blew it by being uninteresting, but I plead illness, and I’m gonna go see her play Saturday.

12th Annual Writer’s Network

RE: STORYBOOK PARK & A DARKLING PLANE

Congratulations! You have been chosen as a quarter-finalist in the 12th Annual Writer’s Network Screenplay & Fiction Competition.

Your submissions received very high marks in both storytelling and concept. As one of 661 quarter-finalists advancing to this stage out of over 1,800 entrants, you will now compete for the semi-finalist round of the competitition.

We will notify all semi-finalists by mail no later than November 30. If you’d like to view a list of the quarter-finalists or the upcoming semi-finalists for the 12th Annual Writers Network Screenplay & Fiction Competition, please visit www.fadeinonline.com after November 30, 2005.

Slamdance

Congratulations J. Wilder Konschak,“Storybook Park” has reached the Quarterfinalist round in the 2005 Slamdance Screenplay Competition. We received over 2,000 submissions and 200 of the best have been selected for the quarterfinals.

Very Early Indeed

My most recently completed feature-length screenplay, A Darkling Plane, has been chosen as a Quarter-finalist in the first round of contests it was submitted to. In particular, the American Screenwriting Competition, sponsored by Hollywood Scriptwriter Magazine and Flat Shoe Entertainment. It represents the top 5% of those screenplays submitted.

Now, this is very early indeed, and the likelihood that it will progress is very slim, particularly since this was the original draft. However, it is rare that Quarterifinalists are “published,” even online, and because it has been published, online, it makes for an excellent addition to my resume, joining Intelligence, Blaring Static, and Occult Blood amongst those scripts of mine that have received some recognition.

Wish me luck, and here’s the website.

American Screenwriting Competition Quarter-finalists.

Also, apparently, I am:

The Subtle, and Perhaps Shy, Neck. You are quietly appreciated more than you think. Not only for your acceptance of gentle kisses, but for the significance your fragility owns. You are easily damaged by whiplash or simply an overstuffed pillow. People even slice you when things aren’t going so great. But keep your chin up, literally. Click Here to Take This Quiz

Your Whole Life, Even Twice

Should you live your whole life, even twice, and do nothing else, you need never hear the same song twice, you need never read the same sentence again, nor view the same picture or painting for more than a moment, and neither film nor play nor episode nor even joke need ever be repeated to you: for you will not run out. Life is so very full. And I am still so very bored.