auld lang balls

In a couple of hours, 2007 will be history. I'm not sad to see it go, personally. This had to be my most prolific year on record! I published four times (my goal), fell in love with the ten minute play format, placed Top Ten in the Writer's Digest Annual Writing Competition and- the biggest chicken noodle coup of all- the "Suburban Psycho" option! When I look back at those accomplishments, it softens the reality that I'm still unknown and sans agent.

Since you asked, I'll tell you. My only two goals for 2008 are: 1) have a stage play produced and/or movie script sold and 2) get a flippin' agent. Not technically a flipping agent. I mean, acrobatic skills not required. Anyway.

Today was strange indeed. For the whole day, I felt like if I spread my wings and hummed loud enough, I could fly. Literally take flight! I was that full of hope and promise. Usually that only happens after a pharmaceutical cocktail, but today it was completely natural. Probably because it was Monday; Mondays and I tend to get along. I mailed three queries and maintained a healthy feeling of optimism about the San Antonio playhouse to which I submitted the disco jobby. Imagine with me for a moment: my stuff on stage, appreciated by the masses. Complimentary finger foods and a Q and A with audience members. Mmm.

Right. Enough of that nonsense. Time to get back to work. Gotta find a home for two creative non-fiction pieces and fast. Both are over two years old. I've been sitting on them so long, I expect them to hatch any day now. So, the hour finds me on duotrope.com, that wondrous database of markets for those of us with writing to market. Back to the grind. Let's see if luck be a lady (or a bald-headed bus station skeezer) tonight.

Happy 2008! :-)

order in the midst of chaos

Outside the temperature is hovering around sixty degrees and there's a light rain. Today is the perfect day to spend in one's robe watching a terrible Lifetime movie and eating a particularly creamy vichyssoise. Instead, I'm on my way to town in search of cool 2008 calendars and ski gear for our upcoming winter excursion.

Yesterday, I was nasty to a woman at work that I am insanely jealous of. She's the cow and a half that got the undeserved raise. I'm ashamed of myself because I know better and I knew I was wrong in the midst of the wrongdoing. If there was a way to go back and correct it, I would. Sometimes I'm such a common bitch. As if you didn't know.

Rest assured comeuppance is mine. For I began the day with a rejection from a Boston playhouse. I'd submitted two plays, both of which were judged and found wanting. This isn't a huge shock, as the rejection is about a month late. Still, closure is always welcome. When I get home, I've got more queries to fire off. On Monday, I really need to get off my chocolate duff and call managers and production companies. As usual, I'll find an excuse not to call. See, cold calling these people terrifies me. On the other hand, I believe that conquering that fear is what stands between me sitting in my home office and me attending my first movie premiere.

Speaking of home office, this place is a mess! I'm talking a no shit, can't-see-the-top-of-the-way-cool-Ikea-desktop, hot ham and cheese mess. I've got Christmas prezzies that need to be put away or eBay'd, gym clothes, shoes, jackets, random papers-- all of this surrounds me. Gotta get this under control before somebody calls Niecy Nash and embarrasses me on television. Then again, cleaning my office may be just another distraction from the inevitable cold calling. Either way you slice it, they both have to be done, right?

the day after

Merry Christmas, readers! Did you get your two turtle doves? I didn't, but I did get Hairspray and some High School Musical booty (not Zac or Corbin, just the books). Hope your booty was as sweet as mine. I took a day off from writing to celebrate food, folks and fun (dig that vintage McDonald's slogan) and it was great, if not exhausting. So, this morning finds me in the wee hours wearing festive thermals, watching "Hairspray", and attempting to craft a coherent blog.

I made a point several months ago of trying to enjoy life more and it's working. I've enjoyed these past five or so days off from work. Not having to go in at 8am, writing all day if I want to, having time to read my books. It's fantastic!

The writer's strike has still got me worried about my future in the entertainment business. Sometimes it seems as though everyone but me has the right answer. Today is the day for another ten minute play. Don't know what it'll be about, but when I'm finished, I'll let you know.

christmas spirit

Allow me to opine about Kwanza. Never was there a heavier load of quasi-cultural bullshit. My people pulled this malarky from their collective fourth point of contact for the sake of being different and difficult. So here's my holiday message to the moron who made it up: Look here, potnah- December 25 is, and always has been, Christmas. Christmas is the celebration of when the baby Jesus was born. There is no baby Kwanz, therefore we do not celebrate his notional birth. This whole concept is ridiculous, but I'll make you a deal. I'll start celebrating Kwanza when I get my reparations. Yeah, wait on it.

Believe me when I say your girl is cloaked in the spirit of mahfukin Christmas! In fact, I'm wearing that bitch like a giant yuletide body condom. Of course, I've passed the point of getting loot from Santa, but this year I received life and laughter from God everyday. Or is it Kwanz?

Oh, the weather outside is frightful!

Okay, I lied. It's not frightful. It's 44 degrees which isn't freezing, but isn't exactly Miami in July, either. I'm gracing a Christmas shindig in about half an hour and I'm stoked because it's with two of my three- count 'em, three- friends in this sleepy little burg. Last year, my friends and I had a Christmas party where I got embarassingly drunk and tried to undress. I got as far as my top. Unfortunately, I became stuck inside my own turtleneck and spent about twenty minutes screaming like a banshee and pleading with the other guests to "rescue" me. The next day, I felt compelled to bring the hostess a houseplant and an apology.

Got a Christmas bonus today! Yay! I went straight to el banco after work and cashed the hell out of it. Now, I've got pocket full of duckets. That's always a good feeling.

So far, I've gotten about $50 in Starbucks gift cards this Christmas. I gave one to the bank teller tonight. I think I'll stand outside Kmart and give the rest away tomorrow. I appreciate the sentiment, but coffee and teeth bleachings don't mix.

Let the merrymaking begin!

syndication

This marks my 100th blog entry! If this blog were a television sitcom, I'd be eligible for syndication (if I wasn't cancelled already for mentioning fingering an anus).

In other blog news, my terrible diet is catching up with me. My skin isn't as glowing and my teeth are telling on me and my affinity for Tazo tea and let's not get started on the hair. It's probably the second most important thing to me (behind my teeth) and it needs help. It's losing elasticity and doesn't want to behave. Luckily it's about to be relaxed within an inch of its obstinate little life...

It's a bitter pill to swallow when you are faced with the truth about yourself. Today I realized that I'm the master of lip-service. One of my favorite sayings has always been: "if there is no wind, then row". However, it's been easier said than done. Instead of giving the ol' oars a workout, I've been sitting in my dinghy pouting. So, the time has come to get off my butt and do something. That's why I've emailed Corbin Bleu's agent with my Lucas Donovan pitch. Maybe he'll read it. Maybe he'll think I'm a looney tune, but it makes me feel better knowing that I did it. If I don't hear anything from him by 4 January, I'm mailing my written query. I checked Corbin's profile on imdb and, besides Freestyle, he doesn't have any other projects in the pipeline. My movie couldn't come at a better time, right? Right?!

Received a rejection today. Was a relief, truth be told. In the past few weeks, I hadn't heard any writing news at all. Therefore, I've busied myself with my spec scripts- one for "Psych" and one for "Suite Life of Zack and Cody" and preparing my submissions to the ABC/Disney Fellowship and the Nickelodeon Fellowship. Nickelodeon application gets mailed on 2 Jan. Don't know when I need to get the Disney one in, though. I also entered my disco play to the Act One Series at the Renaissance Theatre. The festival is in May '08; don't know when chosen playwrights will be notified. I'm excited about this one. The artistic director and I have a pretty healthy e-relationship.

I would SO die if C.B.'s agent wrote me back! :-)

joke break

For Christmas I'm getting you a pair of slippers and a dildo. That way if you don't like the slippers, you can fuck yourself.

Happy Headed No

Imus is back!

I personally like him. True, he said some dumb shit, but he was probably just repeating what he'd heard somebody else say. It's kind of like when my white friends say that something's "nappy"; say, like, undercooked chicken, without knowing what it means. "OMG", they would say. "This chicken is gross! It's so nappy!" It's just ignorance and ignorance is correctable and forgivable.

Dog the Bounty Hunter is a cat of another color. First, let me say that I used to love Dog (I feel the need to preface what I'm about to say before he chews his way through my front door while I'm sleeping and eats my son), but when he called that girl a N*gger, that's exactly what he meant. He wasn't being igmorant (ha ha! Big ups to Kat for that one), he was being malicious. So fuck him. Not literally. Leland, maybe. Maybe fuck Leland. But definitely fuck Dog. Not in a good way.

Thank you for being a friend

Out of the blue today, I got an email from an old friend. Seven years ago, we served together in Germany and now he's one year away from retirement and I'm still crazy. I had forgotten what great times we had! We used to sneak away from work for coffee, have lunch at the local pizza place, and have lengthy conversations about neurolinguistic programming- altogether very stimulating. Good friends- those without an agenda -are hard to find.

Tomorrow morning I have an appointment with my boss to let her know I intend to quit my job. See, there's this annoying, uneducated blob of uselessness that was just promoted. She's only been with the company for six months (to my year). I found this out on Friday and for the past few days, I've been trying to figure out the hows and whys. We're talking a 20k raise, ya'll! That's some serious "balls on chin" money. My question is: whose asshole do I need to finger to get in on the action? I'm normally not in the business of fingering random anus, but if my midget digits and pride are the only thing between me and 90k a year, then, shit. With that kind of dough, I could buy more pride.

Sorry. Sometimes my thoughts run away with me and stuff gets dirty. But that's the beauty of this place! It's like a dog park for my Id. Anyway, for those of you who care, Corbin Bleu is coming out with a new movie. This one is called "Freestyle" (about motocross) and will actually be released in theaters. Hopefully, next he'll play the lead in Lucas Donovan. After all, I wrote it for him.

On the come up

The title is misleading. Technically, I'm in the same spot I was in yesterday, but I did write and that always makes for good times. I spent most of the day watching High School Musical 2, staring Wig Hat Zac and his T.V. dad Joe Shit the Rag Man. He's so called because he wears cheap-ass, threadbare KMart duds. You know da kine. Da Kine that if you wash them twice, the threads separate like mesh. The bastard is wearing car rags! I want to spray his chest with Armor All and wipe him across my dashboard. But I digress.

In between writing in two different screenplays ("Mixtape" and an as-yet-untitled G-rated tale), I visited my friendly neighborhood Walmart and can I just say that I am so over the freakshow? Hillbillies yelling across the store at each other like it's damned Heathrow Airport. Old Man River picking his FAHKING nose in line and he's not to be outdone by the wheelchair brigade. If there's anything that really pisses me off, it's fat fucks in motorized wheelchairs. If you have a medical condition, that's one thing. But if you have a condition that involves cheeseburgers leaping "uninvited" down your chubby throat, then tough titties. Walk it out, walk it out...

I also saw an old woman getting chewed out by a Dave Grohl lookalike. And to make matters worse, I also saw somebody who looked eerily like Shannon Hoon, lead singer from Blind Melon. Except ol' Shanny Shan Shan's been dead for the better part of a decade.

On another note, these punk-ass playhouses can eat a dick. Not mine, of course. But random penis. Why come I can't get an answer from them????!!!! MWWWWWAAHHHH!!!

I had to get that out. I'll now retire to the water closet so I can get something else out. Ca-chow!

Passin' Me By

For those of you who I've tricked into thinking that I am a mature, rational adult, allow me to burn through the illusion. I'm about as petty and mean-spirited as they come. In fact, there are three parts of my personality- the me you see (and who apparently loves Seuss-like verse), my whiny Id ("why come I can't have what they have?!") and Baroness Bitch McNasty ("you fat, untalented, loser, you're wasting time"!). Let me tell you why all this is important.

See, a friend of mine called me yesterday with some cracking good news. She's going to be on a new reality show doing what she does (and does well)- fashion design! At first, I was so excited, I couldn't stand it. I've known her all my life and she's always been talented, always striving to get what she wants on her terms. Ah, but then my pouting little Id chimed in with the inevitable "Why not me?" That's when Baroness McNasty took the opportunity to answer: "I'll tell you why not you, you little shit," she hissed. "Because you're laying your fat, lazy ass on the couch in a pink robe and Betelgeuse knee socks watching the BBC when you should be writing." Hurt as I was, I acknowledged that she had a point. But she wasn't done with me. "While she was on a plane to L.A. facing fear and chasing down her dreams, you were baking cookies for a freaking PTA bake sale. Your whining and sense of entitlement is sickening and damn near eclipsing whatever talent you might have had."

This, friends, plunged me into a despair so dark and encompassing that I couldn't claw my way out if I had Prozac and a flashlight.

Cards on the table: This isn't professional jealousy or even personal regret that I'm feeling. It's straight-up envy. E to the N to the V to the Y. And I don't know why I'm feeling it with her and not my other successful friends. Maybe I do and I'm afraid to voice it... I may as well eat a supersized number 2 (gluttony), sleep with Vin Diesel (necessity, er- lust), then have the gall to get mad (wrath) because I'm a fucking undiscovered genius (pride)! I'm telling you, all this plus this freaking waiting game with the agents has got my skull all wound up. Fuck it. You think I'm doing shit today? You think I'm writing? Ha! There's a robe, a day old bagel and a Joni Mitchell CD in my future. That's sloth for your monkey ass.

impasse

I've been uninspired to do anything today but mope and whine about how my writing career is dead in the water. Right now I'm sitting at the ol' Mac stalling because Bad Joke is fast turning into Worst Joke. I think the element I'm missing (you know, other than believable plot, engaging dialogue and overall entertainment value) is relationships. People and their relationships cause conflict and right now there is no conflict. In fact, my poor characters are simply passengers on a slow moving plot locomotive and are reciting lines- not speaking to one another.

I need to get off my lazy chocolate ass and write. My characters didn't ask to be created; I created them. And if they must speak, the least I could do is give them something to say.

seven meatballs

Calorically speaking, I was very good today. I had seven meatballs, two chocolate candies, eight Chick-Fil-A nuggets, a thing of waffle fries and most of a lemonade today. Oh, and a pot of cole slaw and a red pill. But that was it. I got on the scale this evening and wouldn't you know I gained two pounds?! Life is so cruel sometimes.

Besides my "yay Kay" email this morning from the theatre in Texas, this Monday was pretty uneventful. At work, we had a brainstorming session about what kind of person they wanted to replace me and, as I walked that Green Mile back to my office I realized that I was, in fact, being replaced. Through no-one's fault, mind. It's just my time to rotate out. Still, being faced with the realization that you are dispensable is a hard pill to swallow.

Blogging notwithstanding, I've been sapped of the desire to write anything lately. I think it all started when I was reviewing/ editing my latest ten-minute jobby "Bad Joke" and realized it should be re-named "Bad Plot" or "Oh, Plot, Where Art Thou?" or "Searching for Bobby Plot". You know things have taken a turn for the desperate when your story features a giant, drunk mushroom.

Happy Monday!

Traditionally, my Monday's are fantastic. I seem to always get good news or be on the receiving end of good fortune on Mondays. This morning I opened up my email and there was a message from a playhouse I've been pestering (er, courting) for about a year now. Anyway, they're part of my "congrats" mailing list, so whenever I get positive writing news, I pass it on to them. ANYWAY, the artistic director wrote me back (re: Suburban Psycho optioning) and with a hearty congrats and an offer for me to submit to the one-act festival in May. Yay!! How cool is that? I'm going to write her this morning and let her know that, although I cannot submit "Suburban Psycho" because of the format, scene changes, etc., I can submit another one-act that I have under my hat. An aside- I wonder if she's gone back and read "Slow Burn" because of my email? That's the purpose of the mailing list. To jog people's memories and let them know I'm still out there.

Last Friday, I received a rejection letter from a New York playhouse. That one was for the ten-minute tongue-in-cheek 50s play. Ah, well.

It's 6:25am and I'm due at work in an hour, so I'll have to close. I'm excited to see what the rest of the day brings!

corporate heathens

I worth with some heathens during the day. Case in point- somebody busted ass in the elevator yesterday. I stepped in the elevator and almost immediately threw up. I got off a floor early and walked upstairs. And wouldn't you know, the same idiot had busted ass in the enclosed fourth floor lobby. How do I know? Because it was the same fetid stench as in the elevator, that's how. Like a tiny rotting goat carcass had been stuffed with the sum of humanity's evils (and a pint of cottage cheese) and shoved up the offender's backside. Terrible.

recurring characters

Several days ago, I had a convo with a friend about recurring characters. See, she writes mother-daughter conflict very, very well. Not the same conflict, but many, many facets of it. I also tend to write about parasitic, unhealthily symbiotic relationships, but more often than not, I'm writing priests, rabbis or random Jewish folks. Even where they obviously don't belong, I'm quick to create a situation friendly to your neighborhood holy man. "Potty Mouth" used to have a priest (before I turned him into a dirty preacher at the last minute). In my sitcom, the husband is Jewish and in the second episode, a priest and a rabbi share a scene. The disco play has a Catholic Senator, the Satan screenplay takes place in a Catholic school and my current play has two guys- fresh from a Halloween party- dressed as a priest and a rabbi each. Do I keep writing the same story over and over or do I just have religious issues?

I'm watching Black Books and avoiding the day. You see, tomorrow is my son's Christmas party and today I must buy the decorations and stuff for the holiday craft. But I don't want to go out because it's cold as shit. But if Santa can put in an appearance tomorrow night, then I should at least drag my chocolate ass out into the elements for some glue and glitter. But before I do that, I must get dressed. This is especially vexing since I have nothing to wear.

Right. I can no longer put this off. We must get up, scrape together an outfit and join the world at large.

festival updates

Ya'll, I can't even list how many places I've sent my plays to in the past month. The update is that I haven't heard from anyone yet. Not even Massachusetts. I even emailed the contest coordinator and was like "It's past 1 November and I haven't hear anything. Can I assume my play wasn't chosen?" but no response. I checked the website and winners aren't listed either. Ah well. I will most definitely let you know what happens in the future. Hey! Tomorrow I may get some freaking awesome news, huh?

my local Doppler radar

Can I tell you guys how much I love the Weather Channel?! The anchors are totally my friends! There's nothing better than waking up in the morning to toast and Nick Walker or Marshall Seese and Kim Perez. They're always so animated about, of all things, the freaking weather! Their energy always rubs off on me and lifts my spirits.

I used to feel that way about the hosts of the Home Shopping Network. My favorite was British Ford. She made me want to buy all manner of foolishness simply just because she was friendly.

No news is good news?

That's the anthem. Get your damn hands up.

I fell off the wagon and took a red pill today. I felt weak and dirty, but would you believe that I can actually feel the fat evaporating off the back of my neck? Yeah, I wouldn't believe that shit, either. ;-)

Creative Screenwriting has a killer DVD sale going on right now- tons of DVDs for $12.97 apiece. 'Tis a steal, especially for those of us without the means to travel hither and yon for conferences.

Today I finished what I consider to be the final first draft of "Potty Mouth". Yeah, that ten minute jobby that I was supposed to finish about a month ago. I finished it today at lunch while sucking down a whole can of chili (400 calories, hence the red pill) and watching Dave Chappelle on "Inside the Actors Studio".

Speaking of, Martin Lawrence said something interesting when he was on ITAS. He said he was won Star Search and the next minute he was "walking around at home in my drawls sayin' 'I was on Star Search and I still don't have any jobs'". Preach on, brotha. I'm walking around in my drawls, too (not literally. Literally I'm in my skin suit) and it's getting old. And to add insult to BVD-clad injury, "Cavemen" is now on hiatus. BASTARDS!

the last today- I promise!

I gave a writer-friend feedback today and I'm uneasy about it. The piece was wonderful (as usual), but I'm afraid that I may have said something that offended her. See, I have a schadenfreunde who constantly mistakes a request for critique as an opportunity to tear my writing down and I don't want to be like that. I'm probably totally overreacting (as is my wont), so I'll just leave it as it is. But I don't want her to think that I didn't like the story. I just don't know if I got that across or not. Okay- I'm done analyzing it.

This afternoon, I found no less than six more potential places to send my ten-minute plays. Instead of writing neurotic blogs, I should be banging out pages of "Bad Joke". The play is just what it sounds like, too- a bad, sad, and oh-so-tired joke. Why do I feel compelled to write it? Because it's my joke!

the essay about high school

Hey ya'll! Below is a copy of the essay I was talking about a couple of posts ago. For the record, I never went to the reunion.
--K

Dear Becky Sanderson-Kobb,

I'm sorry to inform you that I won't be attending the ten-year reunion of John Marshall High School's graduating class of 1994. I know you're looking forward to seeing me. We have a lot of catching up to do.
Thing is, since 1994, I've scarcely had time enough to bask in my own good fortune, much less prepare for such a momentous occasion such as the one you and your lockermates have been planning for the past umpteen years. Awards shows, interviews and movie shooting schedules tend to eat through the most ironclad of plans. And far be it for me to appear ill prepared when you've forsaken a career and so much more for this one night.
Memories are funny things, so feel free to look me up in the yearbook. Unfortunately, you won't find me among the "Best" or "Most Likely" lists. No, I take that back. Haley Flinn wrote me in for "Most likely to Suffer from an Anorexia-Related Stroke". You guys got a good laugh out of that one, as I recall. By the way, if you see her, let her know I'm fine now, thanks.
If anyone remembers me, it should be Lance McHenry. You know, the editor of Marshall's creative writing journal "Wellspring"? You were banging him, so your twenty-seven line epic about an Oglivie home perm gone awry, as well as other inspiring pieces by your clique, were included. My poem was not. In fact, one afternoon I popped into the journalism department to check on my submission and heard you and Lance, Tiffany and Haley reading it aloud and laughing. You probably didn't see me since there were actual tears in your eyes. It was a haiku about my dying grandfather, as a matter of interest, but I'm glad you got a chuckle.
Alas, every kick in the teeth has a silver lining. Years after the Wellspring incident, I ran into Tiffany at Kroger. Lucky cow, she looks exactly the same! Yep. Same Bon Jovi bangs, same acid washed tragedy of an outfit. She hasn't passed go nor collected $200. I offered her a smile, but only received a half smile in return. Not entirely her fault, though, as the other half of her teeth were missing.
Speaking of our old pals, I ran into Haley a couple of years ago, too. I was flying into San Antonio and wouldn't you know I'd finished my book on the plane? There I was in the bookstore and, between Deepak Chopra and James Patterson (literally filling the space between C and P), were Haley and her ginormous ass cheeks. She gave me a look she reserves only for the leafiest of greens, and lumbered past me with a huff. Well, I later discovered that it wasn't me she was upset with. The person behind me was purchasing the last bag of gummy worms.
Again, so sorry I can't make it to your little shindig. Trust, there's nothing more I'd like to do than flaunt my success and age-defying body in your faces, but who knows? Maybe I'll make it to the twenty-year reunion. By then, I'll have something like Golden Globe or Oscar worth talking about. International success doesn't begin to compare with your trials of, say, infant mouth thrush, but then again, I was always a step behind. Anyhow, Beks, hope you, Tiffany, and Haley have a bang up time next week. Just be sure to toast the ones you've left behind, as I'm sure they're on a yacht somewhere in the Mediterranean toasting you.

Laughing loud enough for you to hear,
Kay

the pages

I mailed the submission yesterday. This is the second agent to review "Lucas Donovan". Wish me viel gluck.

i didn't even have to use my AK

2000 zero zero party over- oops- out of time!

I'm happy to report that I did not spontaneously combust from having to make merry at a company party last night. Thank God. I saw so many fake smiles, it was pitiful. I did a good job of pushing food around on my plate and making small talk. It was hard, though. We had one igit who insisted on talking about Norman Rockwell paintings. And we care why? I stayed for dinner, but didn't party like it was 1999. The rug was just fine without me attempting to cut it, thank you.

This morning I got an email from Western Connecticut State University (I know- just hear me out) saying my entry into their "Writing High School" contest had been selected for an anthology and they'd like permission to use it and my bio, etc. There's no pay, but the essay I sent them was similar to the short screenplay I optioned earlier this year. That is, little more than a writing prompt. My essay was a tongue-in-cheek letter to the reunion committee about how they and their reunion can suck my imaginary penis because I'd rather stick flaming toothpicks under my gums than continue the torture I left behind upon graduation. I'll post it here for your enjoyment later.

Yes, today's gonna be a good day. Our contractor is finishing our shower today, and my son's school is sponsoring a pancake breakfast. And let the choir say "Yum!" I don't know what it is about pancake brekkie that gets me giddy. It's not like it's toast or anything. Maybe it's gluten-induced delirium.

It's not even seven o'clock in the morning yet and it's already a good day.