The Pretentious Prick

There is no darkness, without light.

2009-09-30T03:07:00.006-04:00

I'm a big fan of light.

Being a filmmaker, I know how vital it is to setting a mood. And setting a mood is so very vital to storytelling.

I was laying in my guest room bed, drinking a glass of wine, smoking a cigarette, staring at the dim rope light that encircles my studio while listening to Steve Roach. Knowing how lighting and sound can manipulate an audience, I often allow it to manipulate me.

This time it made me realize something I had never considered before.

I looked about the room and realized that every once in a while, a single bulb in the rope light has burned out. And seeing this, it made me think that I had never considered that individual light.

It's no mystery that this instantly became a metaphor.

As we move through life, we collect more and more bright bulbs in our rope light. And though the entire length will always provide proficient light, we never consider the individual bulbs until they have dimmed. And no matter what sort if impact in our lives they have provided, be it small or large, they all become painfully missed once looking at the entire string.

There is no replacing them.

But it is at these moments that we thank them for the light they once gave, and we thoroughly appreciate the lights that continue to burn.

Without those that continue to burn, we would forget the one's that have burned away.

-Darrell C. Hazelrig

Can't Write About What You Don't Know

2009-09-10T15:59:00.003-04:00

I've been having a bit of a crisis as of late.

Traditionally I have been a raging romantic. But as time wears on and I get older and my relations with women have begun to change, I find myself questioning the purpose or need for romantic love. I say "romantic love" as I feel that my concepts of love for friends and family has only strengthened, but the notion of my "soul mate" seems to get more distant.

The thing that really worries me is... I'm not concerned.

If I had had these feelings as a younger man, I would have been terrified. But these days when I try and compose lofty thoughts on the subject of love, my mind just calls "bullshit!". And herein lies the problem... I'm trying to write about love.

My current screenplay, a rather esoteric exploration of the psyche of love, is floundering due to the fact that I just don't know what to say anymore. Now I can already hear someone say "so write that!", but I can't! I may have lost sight of "romantic love" but that doesn't mean that I have lost all of my romantic qualities.

Romance is not strictly about love.

I'm a big fan of happy endings. That's not to say that I haven't enjoyed many stories that end on a down note, but for me and my work I want to uplift. I've always been an entertaining sort of person, and it just seems to me that there's plenty more disappointment in the world than there is success. Movies, for me, are a way of escaping the real world and I want things to turn out great for the hero.

What do I do? I've become cynical and jaded and no longer have anything hopeful to say about love. Is it possible that I could still end things on a down note and have it entertaining and fun?

I just don't know anymore.

Probably my biggest problem is I don't know what romantic love is. What does it mean to love someone romantically? I've been searching for an answer to this as of late and no one seems to be able to give a proper response.

Is it eternal?
Is it insightful?
Is it overwhelming?
Is it fickle?
Is it... what?

What is it?

You tell me...

-Darrell C. Hazelrig

Forget the grass, tear down the fence.

2009-06-29T23:51:00.003-04:00

I so rarely get a chance to connect with people on a level that truly interests me. Day in, day out it seems to me that most people prefer to drag on in some zombie state of ignorance. I, however, am far more interested in examining our human condition down to its deepest levels. I find that this puts me at odds with most people, who prefer not to dwell on such issues, as this can lead to many negative effects on the psyche. These negative effects have plagued me my entire life. I have spent the last twenty years using women as an emotional crutch, while I drag myself through the mud of “what does it all mean?”

So I’ve got to say that I must have had my head up my ass, as I just realized that a very close friend of mine of sixteen years shares my interest of introspection.

It began as I started using him as a bounce card for my writing. I would send him new questions, and he would always have questions. These questions would ultimately lead to discussion completely unrelated to my work. Today, after one of these familiar phone conversations, I received this text message:

“I am taking a walk in your shoes, and it helps.”

Honestly, at the time, I didn’t have a clue what he was referring to. But one phone call later would bring more enlightenment than either of us expected. First let me say that this is a friend of whom I respect greater than most. He works a management position in a large corporate retail chain, is a husband, and a father to three. Most of my memories of him are from our miss spent youth, so I’m always taken by the man he has become. And often, I find myself in a state of self-pitying lamentation on the life I’ve never been able to grasp that he so effortlessly wields. So when he explained the meaning behind his text, it made me begin to rethink the life I live, and the role I play in the universe.

“I went to lunch by myself, today, and just thought. It was nice.”

My friend never has time to himself. Never has a chance to examine the problems inside of himself. He is a man of obligations to others. And yet, I’m the one who is always crying.

But his response to this surprised me. He seemed to respect the fact that I live with demons that I wrestle with everyday, and made me aware of the fact that I always over come them. And he learns from me.

Today, sir, I learned from you.

I live my life, you live yours. Neither is better or worse. We come together and share, and in that way, we make each other that much more whole.

Thank you, for being you.

-Darrell C. Hazelrig

Gone.

2009-05-26T09:16:00.001-04:00

Sudden.

Prosecution with no dialogue.

Final solution reached.

The smoke has risen.

I am gone.

And despite meager affirmations,

I am replaced.

Phone,

Silent.

Routine,

Dismantled.

Concord,

Concluded.

I am gone.

The Mighty Will Fall

2008-10-30T15:41:00.001-04:00

"I don't see how I've ever sold anything in my life."

This came out of the mouth of an executive coach who, for the first time in his life, found himself in a situation where he was both the focus and being coached.

This triggered in me the idea of a story of a man who is considered by his peers to be at the top of his game, but after spending a day on camera, goes home and reevaluates his life, ultimately deciding that he is a failure and a fraud.

I've seen this happen so many times. People who are confident in their own fields, crumble when put on camera. Why is it that the camera magnifies people's insicurities?

This strange phenomena makes me really appreciate a professional on camera talent.

Plus it makes me realize how I have no paitence for working with non-professionals.

-D

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I Think Sting Sang It.

2008-10-22T22:18:00.006-04:00

If you've ever truly loved someone... you've thought about killing them.

And I've thought about killing many women. But the reality of murder is far more complex than most give real thought to. I came to this realization while opening a bottle of wine.

Hundreds of miles away from home, who has a corkscrew?

No one. So why is it that the hotel sells cork bottled wine in the "gift shop"? This seems simply absurd to me. But being the drunken crazy person that I am; I would never in a million years put a little cork between me and a Cabernet Sauvignon from Paso Robles.

Time for ingenuity.

To open a bottle of wine, one needs a strong pointed object (ball point pen) and something to insert that object into the cork with (heel of a dress shoe) so that you may coerce the cork down into the bottle (because, let's face it, without an Archimedes Screw and some leverage that baby ain't comin' out!).

With little effort I managed to get the cork down in the bottle, but did so at the cost of a little spillage, which was expected which is why I performed said operation in the bathroom.

There was some misting.
There was some spraying.
There was some spatter.

As I mopped it up with a brilliantly white face cloth, it occurred to me that even if I cared to be extremely diligent, I would never be able to get every last little drop.

There would always be evidence of my little crime. Microscopic particles of DNA waiting to point an accusatory finger.

"He did it! He's the one!"

So what is the moral of all this?

If you love someone...

...set them free.

and bring a corkscrew.

-D

Hoop Jumping

2008-10-21T20:15:00.000-04:00

Low budget, gorilla style video making is nearly impossible now days. In an age of fear and paranoia, the mere sight of a camera just about anywhere is cause for persecution. Call me ignorant, but I just don’t get it. It’s my job to go out and document things in the world, but people freak out when you show up wanting to film stuff. What’s it going to hurt? I’ve got a blond in a business suit addressing the camera about how great the American air transportation system is.

Clearly I’m up to no good.

Shooting at airports, especially, is an exercise in futility. Not one, but four different organizations oversee the operation of an airport. The FAA (Federal Aviation Administration) are in charge of the tower and air traffic control. The Port Authority governs the runway and the buildings that make up the terminals. These terminals are then leased to the carrier who then operate the terminals and gates and own the planes you fly on, but the TSA (Transportation Safety Agency) are in charge of screening passengers.

If you want to film at an airport you have to juggle between these four different agencies, and believe me they don’t always play nice with one another. Just because you have a buddy in the FAA means nothing to The Port Authority. And if a carrier (for example: Continental) is having issues with their terminal’s carpet (yes, I said their carpet) then you can forget about filming in their terminal, because even though The Port Authority owns the building, Continental leases it and it’s up to them.

There’s one simple way to make all of this headache free…

…planning.

Sure, you could take the script, identify what needs to be shot where, contact these organizations ahead of time, and make all the necessary arrangements. Clearly this would be the logical and sane way to go about production…

…but that’s not how I’m permitted to work.

I’m expected to go up to my location without ever seeing the script, and have it emailed to me the day after I get there, and spend the next few days scrambling to get everything I need in the most disorderly fashion. I hate working like this…but!

You will never find me complaining, because one thing I believe very strongly in is:

Adapt or Die.

I like to think of these adverse conditions as a challenge.

Is it the way I would have done it?

No.

But it’s a testament to my intelligence and abilities if I can adapt to the poor conditions and come through successful.

That’s the reward, a feeling of accomplishment.

-D

Big Things In Little Places.

2008-10-20T22:56:00.000-04:00

"Yes ma'am, I am aware that in the event of an emergency I will need to operate the door and assist others."

I need the leg room.

The emergency row on an airplane is pure genius. All the leg room of a first class seat without any of the cost. And for a boy of 6'3", it is much needed.

Plus, if you ever have to actually administer any of the emergency services that have been bestowed upon you, you'll be lauded as a hero.

It's the hero seat!

And all heroes need a little extra space.

Well...

...maybe not Ant-Man.

-D

Welcome to the WOOORLD of Tomorrow!!!

2008-10-16T10:35:00.003-04:00

So I was watching boring 20th century television last night when on comes this commercial for the new HP TouchSmart PC, and I think...

Darrell
Why didn't I realize that things would go this way earlier?
After the iPhone, everything should be touch screen.

So then I get curious and do a Google search for "touch screen computing". Which lead me to this:

Oh my god, the future is here...and it's cooler than anyone ever imagined!!!

I immediately saw a world where every surface is an interactive display. You wouldn't have to carry around a laptop, you'd just sit down at a bar and the bar itself would be a place for you to compute. All your files would be stored on a central database for you to access anywhere.

The most exciting thing about this is that it will happen in our lifetimes. I used to get so worked up about technology when I was a kid, but have lost interest as I've gotten older because it's seemed to me that technology has gotten too pervasive. We're all loaded down with laptops, cell phones, iPods, PDA's, etc. It's all too clunky. I feel like we've been relying too heavily on technology. But what if all this technology was a part of our environment and not gadgets that we had to carry around? Now that's something to get excited about.

Cheers,

-D

Back in the New York Groove.

2008-10-15T11:05:00.003-04:00

I'm flying up to New York in a week for work. Well, to be more accurate, I'll mostly be at the Newark International Airport in New Jersey.

Yes, making more fun videos for the FAA.

But, the good side of this is...after work on Friday I'm going to cruise in to Manhattan and hang with my cousin Rick and his family for the weekend.

Rick, Angela, Zander, and the new baby (who's name escapes me at the moment) are the coolest family I know, and I love to visit them. The funny thing is, one expects to see all the typical sights when you go to NY, but I now prefer just hanging out with them, doing whatever it is they like to do. Last time I saw them, we went to two different kiddie events. One at the smallest lighthouse in the country and another at one of the piers. Good times!

Can't wait!

Cheers,

-D

For Posterity.

2008-10-08T21:33:00.002-04:00

The one downside I've found to being a filmmaker is how long you have to live with your work. This may sound strange, but it's just the way I'm built.

Once I'm done with a project...I'm done.

I'd much rather prefer to hand it off to someone to make of it what they will, while I'm off to pursue the next project. The reality is that a short film I made 5 years ago (though it was very personal to me, and I'm extremely proud of it) still has life and an audience.

And as cool as it is knowing that something you created will be playing on television, it's hard for me to get too excited about "that old thing". I wish I wasn't like this. I wish I could continue to be enthusiastic about my own work for years to come. But the reality is; I'm less interested in receiving accolades for the things I do and more interested in actually doing things.

I want more doing.

I guess it is nice to know that your work lives on...for posterity.

But for now I must get back to work!
write, write, write, write, write.

Now I just need to finish.

-D

I am a Filmmaker.

2008-10-07T14:31:00.002-04:00

The first step to success is believing that who you want to be is who you really are. It still throws me a little bit when I say I'm a filmmaker...but I know it's true.

I make films.

Not: "I made some films".

I make films.

Now, I have yet to make a feature film. No one at Warner Brothers, 20th Century Fox, Paramount, or Universal even know who I am. Be that as it may, I am a filmmaker.

Since I graduated in 1999, I've made 4 short films. That's right, I've made 4 short films in almost 10 years. Before that, since 1988 I made something like 20 short films. The main reason for this is that my work is becoming more and more professional. I no longer am satisfied to just grab a camera and start filming a few of my friends ad-lib their way through a loose concept.

Now-a-days I actually write scripts.

Good material is hard to come by. So in essence, I've turned to quality over quantity.

I'm on the verge of a new adventure, one I've had my eye on for 20 years. I'm a few short pages from finishing my first feature script. it will be on to new challenges of financing and producing a film...for money. The first time I will get paid to make a movie. And probably the most comforting thing about the whole prospect is...I have no doubt it will happen.

That's how I know I am a filmmaker...

I make films.

-D

I Don't Know What To Say

2008-10-06T19:31:00.000-04:00

Let Me Get You Some Water.

2008-10-03T21:33:00.002-04:00

Why is it that every time something bad happens to someone in a movie; be it a bump on the head, a sudden illness, or an emotional shock, someone jumps up and says...

"Let me get you some water."

Like water is some cure-all we all need at times of trauma. Why has this become such a pervasive element in script writing?

Fuck your water...get me a band-aid.

-D

The Rents: Part 3 - The Exciting Conclusion

2008-10-02T23:32:00.002-04:00

I slept on the couch despite the fact they had departed that evening. I just couldn't bring myself to crawl in to the sheets that they had just been in. I felt I might cross contaminate myself with their insufferable behavior and ludicrous thinking.

As my parents age, especially my father, I've noticed a general lack of concern for what comes out of their mouths. I believe that this is a general philosophy that can be applied to anyone approaching the end of their days.

"I'm about to die, what the fuck do I care what anyone thinks!"

And so the cork comes out of the bottle. The stopper of decency, tact, and good sense is removed and a flood of vulgarity, uncouthness, and general inappropriateness comes rushing out. My mother is most cunning about it. She's always faking you out. Distracting you with one hand up high to your left, as she comes across your face hard with the right for the smack down. You never see it coming. With my father it's always staring you in the face. You hunch over, roll your eyes, and sit and wait for the hose.

My father is curious to a fault. This annoys me to no end because he's always digging me for information on things I know will mean absolutely nothing to him, other than ammunition for his decrepitly bad humor.

He's always asking about people I know. People I know that he doesn't know, but he likes to act like he's heard of or met them before.

Especially girls.

My father loves the ladies. I had always heard snippets of this idea from my sisters over the years, but in the past 7 years, since I've managed to have a string of ladies come and go from my life, I have begun to see this first hand. Probably the first most blunt and shocking evidence I had rammed down my throat happen about five years ago. I was in between relationships, and it was a rare time when I found myself alone in my apartment with my father, and out of complete no where he turns to me and says:

"Just fuck'em!"

Excuse me?

"Get yourself a couple of good lookin' girls, and just fuck'em!"

I'd never wished I'd had the power to crawl inside my own skin more than that moment.

Every time I mention a girls name my father's ears perk up:

"Who's _______?"

No matter what I say next:

"She's just a friend."
"She's my boss."
"She's the Mayor of Kalamazoo."

Three things happen:

1. "Is she good lookin'?"
2. "I recognize that name."
3. "Do you have a picture of her?"

This was exactly the case the other day when I was explaining my weekend visiting Crystal in Birmingham. He starts drilling me for information, details.

"Where's she from?"
"How'd you meet her?"
"What do her parents do?"
"What's her social security number?"

What the hell is he going to do with all this information? When I refuse to answer certain questions he acts like I'm the one being entirely unreasonable. So he gets to the portion where he wants to see a picture of her. Fine, I oblige. He takes one look, points to a near by drinking vessel and says:

"That Crystal is a sweet piece of glass…huh, huh, huh, huh!!!"

I'm absolutely certain that I was adopted.

Moments like these are tolerable. It's my dad and his dumb sense of humor. But there are times when his thinking like this infuriates me. Case in point, my Psychologist appointment yesterday.

My father and I had an errand to run that was time sensitive, so there was no other choice, he would have to accompany me to my therapist. As soon as we get there he's drilling me for information about her.

"Where's she from?"
"Where'd she go to school?"

I've been seeing my therapist since January. She's heard a lot about my father. So as soon as she comes out to greet me and I introduce her to him, her face lights up. She wants to talk to him. I decide it best if he wait outside. We spent about 15 minutes chatting going over what's been going on since last we spoke, but she just can't get over it.

"What would your dad say about this right now?"

I cave. I call him in. We spend the first bit of the conversation on general things. My father consistently says things that trigger glances to me from my therapist. I've explained him well. But then the conversation turns. He starts talking about her…the EX…Katherine.

My father has never hidden the fact that he absolutely loves Katherine. And apparently this is entirely at my expense. It never seems to matter to him what amount of hurt she put on me over the years.

"She's absolutely beautiful, extraordinarily smart, would make one heck of a wife, and would produce the most beautiful grand children"

The key here is beautiful. My father found his dream girl 50 years too late. And to please himself, he wants me to take on the brunt of abuse that that imbecilic child would inflict on me. But he just can't see past her tits.

I'm not kidding either.

He once said to her face:

"How are you, big tits?"

WHAT!?!

My 73 year old father said to my (I guess she was 18 at the time) girl friend's face:

"How are you, big tits?"

It would be one thing if he didn't care what others thought of him, but he doesn't realize that his behavior has adverse affects on those around him.

They have finally gone.

Left me to my peace. Left me to live my own life for a little bit longer. And I suppose, in the end, left me with ammunition of my own. Material for my never ending wandering mind and need to express myself in some form or fashion.

It is this gift, my creativity, that I can never thank them enough for. My father especially, over the years has fostered it. So I suppose in the end, putting up with their insufferable behavior isn't so bad after all.

I love you Mom & Dad.

Next time you come and visit…

…I know a great hotel.

And thanks for the toaster!

-D

The Rents: Part 2 - The RX Man Can

2008-10-01T12:04:00.003-04:00

“You fell asleep in Antarctica.”

My father said hovering over me in the morning.

I had fallen asleep dreadfully early the previous evening watching the Discovery Channel program “Planet Earth – Ice Worlds” with him. He had joined me when he heard me giggling like a little girl from the next room watching fat penguins waddling through the snow and ice. Halfway through the program I had passed out.

A combination of hundreds of miles of driving, championship drinking, hauling gear through nature preserves, my new found obsession with bodily improvement, and a general lack of sleep had driven me to the point of exhaustion by Tuesday night. But it was the sleeping pill that really did me in.

My father had offered it to me the night before, in a manner someone might offer you gum or a breath mint.

“Sleeping pill?”

He does this sort of thing all the time. Being a rather elderly man, he has access to quite a few prescription medications. This has given him the delusion that he has the magical powers to cure any and all ailments.

Got sinus problems?

Breath easy!

Depressed?

Clear those grey clouds!

Trouble sleeping?

Consider yourself in La-la-land!

It might make a little more sense if the family used him like a Pharmacy, but that’s not how it works. You’ll be sitting around minding your own business when along comes dad…

“Take this.”
(brandishing a little white pill in hand)

When you inquire what it is, you never get the logical answer of something like:

“It’s an aspirin.”
or
“It’s an antihistamine.”

It’s always:

“For your sinus problem.”

See, you have a problem and he’s going to fix it. That is so the essence of my dad. But at this point you just might be asking yourself…

“What the fuck problem do I have? I don’t have a sinus problem?”

Now you’re wondering how he came to this conclusion.

“I heard you sneezing.”

Never mind the fact that you had just been snorting cracked pepper. You have a sinus problem and it demands immediate action, take this pill!

My father’s ability to put 2 and 2 together and get 22 has driven me mad my entire life. If my father sees a tree stump and a hub cap, obviously there was a car wreck. And upon further inspection he sees some glass on the street, so the driver was killed during the crash. What actually happened was the neighbor had cut down the dead tree in his yard last week, a bum had left the hub cap, and someone else entirely had poorly discarded the remains of their Yoohoo.

This has prompted me to view life from an entirely different manner. I see a situation, I note the issues, and I wait for all the facts to come in before I make an assessment. I have never understood how my father, given his way of thinking, made a career out of rocket science. Of course, perhaps my father’s mind set lent itself to sending men to the moon. I don’t know. I’m waiting for all the facts.

I’m a night owl. The thought of falling asleep at 9:30 at night somehow troubles my soul. But as I swallowed that pill, I couldn’t have been more relieved to know that sweet slumber would be mine. But there’s always a catch to when I fall asleep so early. Namely confusion.

I awoke at what I thought was the middle of the night. The TV was off, the lights were out, my parents in bed. What good is a sleeping pill if you wake up half way through the night? I wearily shot my arm out into the dark in search of my phone to check the time. I press a button, bringing my fellow slumberer to life (if only I had an instant wake button). I have a voice message. It’s from Crystal. When did she call? She called at 11:26pm. Checking the time I see that was…

17 Minutes Ago!!!

It’s 11:43pm?
I stared at the time dumbfounded. I continued to stare, thinking if I look long enough my weary eyes would come to and realize what my brain really wanted it to be; 3 maybe 4 in the morning. But the numbers never changed. My brain just could not reconcile this. It struggled to find an excuse as to why the time could still read before fucking midnight.

Did my phone reset?

No. The sad truth is I had just woken up from a two hour nap. I listened to Crystal’s message in which she suggested that I was mad at her for not calling me back the night before by not answering my phone. I thought about calling her back, since it wasn’t so late, but realized that my only form of communication would be grunts, which she might interpret as a lewd phone call. We’d have to settle this another time.

I rolled over and to my surprise fell fast asleep. I gently woke this morning feeling quite rested. I got up, showered and dressed, and had plenty of time for an eat in breakfast.

My only real complaint about my morning…

…I burnt my bagel in my new toaster.

-D

The Rents: Part 1 - Who Are These People?

2008-09-30T13:48:00.006-04:00

The following was originally written April, 2007.

It began as a typical morning…

I awoke on the couch 20 minutes before my alarm was to sound. The color of the room a little off as the sun had yet to fully rise. A cat brushed by my feet that were propped up on the arm rest at the opposite end. I’m too tall for most couches, but despite this little fact I rarely make it to my own bed anymore. I rolled over and intended to continue my usual morning ritual, which consisted of what I like to consider a gradual waking process. Most people would just see a lazy asshole on the couch hitting the snooze button until it was absolutely time to get up. But fuck them, life’s all about perception.

That’s when I hear…SLAM!

SLAM!

SLAM! SLAM! SLAM!

It’s my mother trying to get the washing machine to start up. The switch on the lid that activates it sticks, and I had showed her the night before my remedy. But after 15 hours of washing every piece of fabric in my house, I think the thing gave up and finally broke.

I sat up, sighed, and then stumbled to the laundry room to save myself, more than my mother. No dice, the machine is fucked. No surprise to me at all. When I arrived home from work the day before to discover my parents had actually made good on their threat to visit, my mother was already doing my laundry. By the end of the evening she had done more laundry than I had in the last 6 months. I think my washing machine felt abused.

I’m not a morning person. I can get up and be functioning, but don’t talk to me. Or I guess you can talk to me, but don’t expect a response. At least nothing more than a grunt.

I decided that my morning shower would be good solitude from the onslaught of Sam and Julia at 7 in the morning. Why is it that my parents are incapable of acknowledging the passage of time?

It’s not 1989!
I’m not 13!

It’s 2007!
I’m 31!

I’ve managed to make it on my own for a while now!

But this never seems to matter. They don’t approve of anything of my lifestyle. My line of work, the friends I keep, my love of travel, my tattoos, my clothes, my connoisseurial interest in Beer, Wine, and Tobacco, my interest in motorcycles. I can’t begin to imagine the kind of life they want me to lead. But all this frustration does have a bit of payoff as it makes me feel a bit of the rebel.

After the shower and dress I found I had more time than I usually allow myself in the morning. As of recent I’d been a little lazy, so normally by the time I’m through with my shower its rush, rush, rush and out the door. But today I found myself with an opportunity to eat in.

My mother had discovered the brand new packages of blueberry bagels and cream cheese that had gone untouched amongst my food stuff for the past two weeks. I enjoy blueberry bagels and cream cheese. After all, I had purchased them. But on discovering that I do not own a toaster they had become useless to me. Could someone actually eat an untoasted bagel? Honestly I hadn’t even gotten that far in my thinking. Without a toaster I had completely banished any thought of bagels and cream cheese. Luckily my mother was there to put a new perspective on things.

So here I was, six minutes left on the clock before I was out the door and on my way to work. I thought I could relax, read my David Sedaris book, and eat my bagel all on the comfort of my couch.

In comes my father. He sits on the ottoman in front of the chair. As he puts on his socks he inquires as to what I’m reading. I immediately have my usual reaction when my father asks what I’m doing. I think:

“What the fuck do you want to know for”?

Let me ‘splain…

No, there’s no time…

Let me summarize…

DAD
What’cha readin’?

ME
David Sedaris

DAD
Who’s that?

ME
He’s a writer.

You can see where this is going. Plus, if I were to explain that he writes comedic true lifestories about his (fucked up dysfunctional, not entirely unlike our) family…oh, and he’s a homosexual…there would be no end to my father’s bad, terribly bad, horribly terribly bad jokes.

(CUE MOTHER)

Just then my mother walks in the room as if on cue. She carries a wooden handled brush with long bristles. The kind of brush I imagine one removed lint with. She then begins brushing my father’s fine thinning white hair. My dad looks at me with a sheepish grin and says:

“I’m like an old horse, I get brushed every morning."

I cracked a half hearted smile that I hope communicates:

“I knew you were going to say something dumb like that.”

See, that’s my dad. You always know its coming. His eyes light up, and he gets that stupid grin on his face. Here comes a stinker. It’s my mother you have to watch out for. You never know what she’s going to say. You could never prepare yourself for hearing 2 beats after my father’s comment…

“And you’re hung like a horse too!”

But that’s what she said. Did you get that? Are you listening? My dad said:

“I’m like an old horse, I get brushed every morning.”

And my sweet little old prim and proper mother followed it up with…

“And you’re hung like a horse too!”

There I sat on the couch. One leg propped up on my knee. Book in one hand, blueberry bagel with cream cheese in the other.

My entire body tensed. I curled up into a tiny little ball deep, deep, deep inside my chest and wept. Inside my head I screamed.

I prayed that my exterior did not betray my horrified interior. I sat unflinching eating my bagel and reading my book. At any moment I imagined a bird would land on me, mistaking me for a statue.

Then my brain did the worst possible thing it could have at that moment. I actually thought:

“Thank god for heredity!”

Why!?!

Why would I do that!?!

For one brief moment, my father and I stood naked, side by side. Two generations of family jewels on display for the world, with my mother standing proudly by.

Sometimes I hate my imagination.

I scarfed down my bagel, said good bye and ran to the car. In the sanctity of my car…

I screamed out loud.

The entire drive to work I plotted ways of running away from home.

How sad…since it’s mine.

-D

I hate film festivals

2008-09-29T11:57:00.004-04:00

You will be hard pressed to find a more masturbatory, self important venue filled with pretentious fucking losers…and yes, I’m one.

They’re designed to be a celebration of the art form of cinema. A place where like minded individuals gather to indulge in a common passion and promote a dialogue on one of the most influential art forms of the last 100 years. But it seems to me that they become more and more a place for the no talent local yahoos of whatever town is hosting the festival with a camera and a contrived idea based on a dick joke to showcase their “work” in some grand circle jerk for an audience mostly comprised of the idiots involved so they can all snicker, pat themselves on the back, and feel like their meaningless empty lives have some sort of point.

How about trying to rub those two brain cells you have left together and do something that has an inkling of substance.

Try and say something.

Our culture has many facets. Some of which I strongly disagree with, but who am I to say they are wrong? As an intelligent open minded thinker, I cannot, however I can make them the object of my scorn. The desire to be famous, the desire to be adored by those around you, to have your praises sung by the plebs, these are legitimate reasons for wanting to be a filmmaker. Baseless and idiotic, but legitimate all the same. Film making is a tool of mass communication. As our world becomes more integrated, more connected, and as the tools for mass communication become easier and easier to obtain by the populace, there is an exponential increase in vapidity.

STOP!!! PUT THE CAMERA DOWN!!!

Now think.

Look at the world around you. Try and really examine the problems of our human condition and comment on them. Try to bring a new way of thinking to the rest of the world. Say something meaningful.

THAT is constructive.

THAT is good film making.

And now a lesson in short film making…

I’ve been making short films for 20 years now. And in that time I have been guilty of many of the no-no’s I’m about to impart to you. So please, learn from my mistakes.

The art of short film making is unique. You should never approach making a short film in the same manner as making a feature film. For one reason: IT’S SHORT!

Everyone cuts their teeth making short films. EVERYONE. Steven Spielberg made short films as a kid, long before he became a big time Hollywood director. Now that he is a big time Hollywood director, he doesn’t make short films anymore. I say this because, if you’re making a short film, most likely you’re not a big time Hollywood director.

NOBODY GIVES A SHIT WHO YOU ARE.

They came to see a story, not some asshole with his dick in his hand. So, STOP WITH THE HOUR LONG INTRO CREDITS!!!

Famous stars DO do short films. So if you managed to bag Philip Seymour Hoffman for your short, by all means plaster that before the show starts, it’s a marketing tool.

BUT NO ONE KNOWS OR FUCKING CARES ABOUT…Starring Tom Smith.

Tom who?

Just get on with the fucking show, already!!

A short film should begin with the title and that is IT. Short films are all about getting on with it. Jump right in and tell that fucking story. Smack them in the face with your awesome movie, not your 12 inch dick. After the film, have a modest and accurate credits segment. Try and not repeat names over and over again. It looks like bragging, and everyone knows that people who like to brag a lot have tiny shriveled balls the size of peas and their mommy never loved them.

MAKE IT ABOUT THE MOVIE, NOT YOU!!!

Cheers,

-D