Project Hot Air Balloon

Official

2012-01-31T00:51:00.000-08:00

San Francisco City Hall

For the first time in maybe a year (or two), I don't feel like I was robbed blind at the end of the month.

For so long I've said,
"I can't believe it's already February (or whatever month); I don't know where the time went!"

When I actually know where it's gone. Down the toilet. Or more accurately, I flushed it down the toilet.

At my last thankless job, as soon as Monday hit, people counted the hours for Friday to roll around. And Saturday would come and before you could enjoy the taste of freedom, the Sunday Blues beat you into submission and the cycle would start at sunrise. It was a sad way to squander my time, but it was the only way to cope.

I crossed off days on a calendar like an inmate waiting parole; now that I'm out, I couldn't be more careful about paying attention to the passage of time.

Boy, was I ever paying attention this month. Every day, I was aware of what I was doing and how I was spending my time. I'm no longer hiding in the woods, waiting for the cavalry to ride through. And it's not a neurotic, nervous, paying attention, but instead, a "I don't want to miss a thing because I'm so excited" kind of paying attention.

I've always been great at making lists, but this year it's become my religion. I carry around this big-ass notebook with my grand schemes written down in detail. There's list after list of things that I plan to accomplish each day - next month - in life.

In it, I've noted to go to my studio and write in solitude (which always includes Bootsie C.) And I've gone every weekend with my thermos.

And last week I visited our very beautiful City Hall to make something official with the city, just like everybody else. I was initially going there to pick up forms, but I ended up renewing my business registration on the spot. It was all very easy. Each step of the process was "across the hall" so I started in one corner and ended up walking a perfect square inside the building; There was a a father and son closing their business, a woman applying for a liquor license and at least four couples making their nuptials official.

The next day my new business cards arrived...and they were so handsome, they made me blush.

They wrapped everything sealed with a Yay! sticker.

And the following day I ventured into the unmanned territory of my web-server. After all, if I print my website on my cards, I have to have a WEBSITE. And I can't pass out my lovely cards until I do.

It was the most terrifying frontier. I felt like Daniel Boone whacking his way through 18th century Appalachia. There were domain names, DNS servers, inboxes and IP addresses that made no sense to me. Yet I've been paying hundreds of dollars for years to "maintain" it. My web-server and the cluster-fuck that it represents is my digital equivalent of the most horrific episode of Hoarders.

It's been a thorn in my side forever; the tangled gold chain in my jewelry box that I've been pushing aside, because the thought of untangling was beyond comprehension. And since the value of gold is up I can't toss it, but it just sits there, continuing to be annoying, undervalued and unappreciated. Well, hand me my coonskin cap and bowie knife, I'm ready to conquer this wilderness.

But the most amazing feat this month came yesterday by way of a letter from Japan. My father kindly forwarded me the permission he obtained from the surviving grandson of my main character, Lafcadio, allowing me to write my screenplay about his grandfather. It's quite a responsibility. And I plan to do his fascinating story justice if that's the first and last thing on my list this year.

This little piggie is ready for February.

studio

2011-12-31T10:53:00.000-08:00

Here it is, the last day of the year.
And what's more appropriate than ending with a new beginning.

This week I got the greatest gift that I could think of - a work studio. This came about the most unexpected yet sensible way - I asked for one.

Rent is still holding strong in the city, even in this tough economy. Just the week before, I looked at a space in the Mission that was renting for $1500. And that was just a work-only space. But I'm sure it'll rent to a rich sucker that dabbles in art-like activities.

I started to toy with the idea of having a dedicated work space all year, but I just couldn't see how it was possible. And that's the point. When you can't imagine something, it's not possible. In fact, it's impossible. But as soon as I started to think of things differently and saw that there was hope for change, I quit my job, found alternate sources of income, and started moving toward the light, away from the darkness.

And then, this fall, I got a housemate who is a working artist. And through Hiroyo, I met other artists and then a community of artists. And they were all making a successful living with their art. Not only that, they were thriving and damn fun to be around.

But they take their work seriously and they work very hard every day. Hiroyo goes to her studio in the Mission to work every day. And me, I believe that I'm saving money by keeping everything on home turf, but I never ever get to my work. I have a powerful case of ADHD coupled with the unrelenting forces of procrastination; I can't walk across the room without getting derailed. And seeing her daily productivity made me realize that I need to do the same. I need to give my work a dedicated space and the proper room to grow.

And it's the darnedest thing. Right when I was about to call a friend to ask if there were any vacancies in her complex, she beat me to it and called me. Out of the blue. We hadn't seen each other since June and she just wanted to say hi. When I told her what I was thinking she said I could look at her space that night and decide how much space I needed and we could come up with an arrangement. That was 10 days ago.

It's a tiny 10x10 corner inside a gigantic studio space, but it's all mine. There's no running water, but plenty of afternoon light. I signed the papers, made keys & got my security badge. It's near the US naval shipyard so you must be authorized to be there. People have gotten arrested venturing into government property. I was told that I can't even take a photo of the area - a bit scary.

What's scarier is my not having any more excuses. I want to bring my easel, my loom, my art supplies, textile equipment, and everything else; but if I bring all of that over, I'm just relocating my distractions. So today, I'm moving in with just a writing desk and a chair. For the first 6 months of 2012, my dedicated project is my long-neglected screenplay about Lafcadio. My goal is to finish by my birthday in June. It's been in hibernation since 2006 when I started working at Bare Escentuals. And so have I.

Happy new beginnings to you.

the beginning

2011-11-11T17:22:00.001-08:00

I resigned this week.

It's no secret to my friends and colleagues (maybe even my bosses) that I've been desperate to leave my job for a while now. I wanted off this runaway train and into the arms of freedom... But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find my way out.

I applied for obvious opportunities and not so obvious ones; and I wasn't being picky. I interviewed for everything from creative director to oyster shucker. Every time I walked into Whole Foods my gaze lingered on the chalkboard scribble of "now hiring" by the hand baskets, and I would say to myself "they probably provide a rich medical package..." I can stack loaves of bread, no problem.

This is what one does when desperate, shoot randomly without aim. But before too long you've wasted all of your ammo and hit nothing. For whatever reason, things were off and life was determined to keep me shackled to my post for a little bit longer.

Then I went to Michigan.

After a week of hanging out with my dad in the woods by the lake, cooking, eating, writing, reading, playing piano, watching movies and thinking, I started to feel like myself again. He's an 82 year-old dude that does what he loves and loves what he does every day. He's busy, he's humble and he lives modestly, but has a very rich life. He doesn't answer to anyone but himself. Watching him every day gave me inordinate joy, and I couldn't wait another day to start doing the same.

Last week, when I was riding the elevator to go to a meeting, I knew with absolute certainty it was time to resign. Suddenly the shackles had come off.

Next week this time, I'll be working for myself.
And that is just the beginning.

cancer schmancer

2011-10-14T18:18:00.000-07:00

With one week left of Breast Cancer Awareness Month, where pink is absolutely everywhere from shampoos, T-shirts to tortilla chips (I'm not kidding, they made pink tortilla chips), I'm officially putting an end to cancer week with this flick. I'm done.

On my last night in Michigan, pops and I caught this bargain matinee at the Traverse City Cinema for five dollars. (I love TC)

It was quite good. It reminded us both of my mom.

And then I heard the guitar intro to Yellow Ledbetter on the final frame; I think I actually gasped. Maybe lost my mind for a second. (20 years later, I still haven't figured out the lyrics; Eddie sounds like a derelict from a foreign land), but no matter, this song is one of my kryptonites and I can't escape its clutches. Since then, I've been on a rampage with 90's rock. If I start wearing torn jeans and combat boots again, leave me be. I'm running my own private Lollapalooza Tour on iTunes...

With this effective fourth and fifth kick in the face, I bid my official farewell to cancer week.

in memoriam

2011-10-12T11:03:00.000-07:00

Last week, October 4th at 4PM, I had the honor of attending the memorial service of Graham Leggatt, the director of the San Francisco Film Society. He died of cancer at the young age of 51.

Exactly 24 hours later, October 5th at 4PM, the world learned of Steve Jobs death. He died of cancer at the young age of 56.

That same evening, HBO aired Part 1 of Martin Scorsese's latest documentary about George Harrison. (Part II aired the following night on Oct. 6th Both excellent.) He, too, died of cancer at the young age of 58.

There's no meaning, just mourning.

I really really liked these men. It felt like I was kicked in the face, not once, not twice, but three times. It hurt. It was a yet another shitty reminder about the decisive and unrelenting power that cancer has over man.

But I won't say they were taken prematurely. Because they did with their brilliant lives, exactly what they came to do, no more, no less. And the only way I can thank them now, is to do the same with my own.

autumn visit

2011-10-12T09:22:00.000-07:00

flying out of Chicago over Lake Michigan

Boy is it ever hard to start writing once you've stopped. It's like trying to ride a bicycle from the bottom of a hill.

It's been over three months since my last post. I was pretty happy that I was able to write regularly for the past two years. But this summer I became preoccupied, to say the least. Some things happened that were insanely great, and other things were annoying or horrible and I let them rule my summer because I let it. Initially, it felt a lot like constipation (this is mostly figure of speech) and whatever was blocking my writing would soon pass. But then it started to feel like a malignant tumor metastasizing into other parts of my being. Whatever it was, I was working really hard at ridding of it. But then in September I realized that this thing I was trying to excise from my daily life was something of my own creation. That's when everything changed. Suddenly I felt like a cow about to give birth to a calf (again, figure of speech). As soon as I made that mental shift, all things started to fall into its proper place. Every little thing that was under scrutiny in my life turned into a good reason to start anew.

So, naturally, what does one do at such a critical juncture.

Get on a plane and leave town, naturally.

I wanted to see my father. It's been two years, almost to the day, since I last saw him. And now that I've sorted out a few things, I felt OK to extract myself from life for a while.

If practice does indeed make perfect, I'm a fucking master at do-overs.

PHAB domain name

2011-07-03T07:32:00.000-07:00

After two whole years, I realized that I needed to make this blog official. (Hey, friends don't call me flash for nothing.) Don't know why it escaped me for this long that I needed to register the actual domain name, but it all sort of clicked around 5AM today, on the anniversary of Bibi's memorial.

People have asked me countless times the blog's domain, and I didn't quite know or would get it wrong. Seriously. I post using a shortcut on my browser tab, and nothing else. If I weren't in front of my computer, I wouldn't be able to get them here. It's been my "dear diary" or the virtual pillow that I've been screaming into since my first post about Bibi; and I guess I was never quite certain about sharing it at a world wide web level.

Since then, PHAB has been an exercise for me to write regularly and publish to an abstract audience. They're all true stories that are personal to me and I didn't want to impose, embarrass, reveal or overshare beyond my comfort zone. If some stranger stumbled upon it, fine, I'd let them have it. But only a core group of friends willingly subscribed and I liked it that way.

Early this morning I ended up on the SETTINGS page and it asked me if I wanted my own domain name, instead of being cloaked within blogspot. I'm sure this question has appeared on screen a hundred times before; and it's human nature's duty to block the most glaring things in life if you're not ready to see it.

But when I saw this question today, I said "why not".

It's as though I've been living in a house for two years but never knew its street address. Now I know where I live and can have people over.

[Thanks, B.]

rat's nest

2011-06-19T09:07:00.000-07:00

I have really let myself go this year. Which is why it was opportune that I ran into my favorite hairdresser when I started to look like...

Cousin It from the Addams Family

Slash from Guns 'n Roses

I honestly can't remember the last time my hair was this long.

Cut it all off, I said. Not so short that I have to come back every 5 weeks. But short enough that it doesn't get caught in shoulder straps or wind turbines.

It looks dry and wild because she put a lot of product in there (and it was super blustery in GGP yesterday). But I feel lighter and the hair feels great. For the better part of the year I was hiding behind my mane and it also made me lazier and lazier about my "do". I would just twist and clip and not give a rat's ass about this rat's nest. And it's a slippery slope when you start to cut corners on personal grooming - especially alarming for somebody who used to be obsessive about her hair. Thank god I took the time this week to at last address this issue, as it was becoming unseemly and quite urgent.

Usually hair stylists suspect that you're going through an emotional episode when you request such a transformation. Number one is heartbreak. But this time it's not that. I just haven't felt myself for months and wanted to at least look the part of being me.

She also gave me wispy baby bangs; and while I'm not so concerned about "looking [even] younger", I don't want to look older either. I have to agree that I'm back to being myself again. Noriko is a gem and it was a pure gift that I ran into her on the street. She does great hair, but more than that, she gets me. I hadn't seen her in over 8 years when she put her career on hiatus to have a baby. I've had great cuts from others in between, but she was the best by a long shot and the one that got away. But she's back now and we've reunited once again. Hallelujah.

You carry around a lot of energy in your hair, mostly dead. Doctors and forensic scientists can read your health and diet history by analyzing a single shaft of your hair follicle. Shedding this much weight and personal history in an afternoon is rather freeing. Very project hot air balloon.

joyous giant berries

2011-06-18T23:04:00.000-07:00

I don't know what it is about this summer, but berries have never tasted better. They're sweet like candy, fragrant to the point where you think they're faking it – flavorful beyond compare. And look at the size of these honkers. I've never seen blueberries this huge. They're like grapes. And contrary to the belief that bigger isn't better when it comes to produce, they're not any less enjoyable than their more compact peers.

I fondly recall my friend Bruno from France, as I munch on these giant berries. Years ago, when I served him grilled portobello mushrooms at a BBQ, he looked at it (and me) with horror, like I was trying to serve him a grilled human baby. He'd never seen a mushroom that size and thought that it was genetically modified in Dr. Evil's lab, which involved irradiation and nuclear energy. He practically ran from the table and there was no convincing him that it was safe to consume. This, from a Frenchman who eats dirt balls (truffles), fatty entrails (foie gras), and slugs (escargot). We are still friends, but we could not bridge that cultural gap that summer. It's a good thing he wasn't around to see this year's crop of berries.

Even during a slump year, for some reason, dark berries (blackberries, blueberries) are much more forgiving than their red counterparts (raspberries, strawberries), in terms of slack factor. I could easily keep eating a bowl of cereal that has a bunch of dark berries that are under-performing, but give me a red berry that's not bringing its A-game to the table, all has gone to shit. That really yanks my chain; I become so incensed that I want to throw the bowl across the kitchen.

Therefore, I conclude that "red" berries are like first-borns in a family. We expect them to be number one at everything, sports, grades, looks, etc. and we want them to go to an Ivy League and start their own practice and take care of us when we're old, hence we are seriously disappointed when they miss their mark. On the other hand, "blue" berries are the babies of the family. They can do no wrong and average or below is perfectly fine by us. They can go to a community college and not graduate, we constantly lend them money they'll never repay and we let them live at home until they're 38.

Anyway, the good news is, this year is a banner year for berries across the board, red, black, blue, yellow, you name it. Hurray to berries; no bowl tossing tantrums in my home. Eat up, folks.

Yes, I often play with my food and photograph them like they're close family members; it's because they're so beautiful they give me a reason to celebrate the very little things everyday.

The smaller berry is the standard size and the giant "Dr. Evil" one is at least 2.5 times larger than it.

C'mon, this is a legitimate cause for a celebration.

fatty.

I walked into the bedroom one night to find this strawberry lying in the middle of the floor. After a few seconds of confusion, I deduced that the cats have taken to playing with the season's bounty also. How they got it off the kitchen counter and carried it into the next room to play soccer, I would have liked to witness.

a perfect lunch

2011-05-18T23:12:00.000-07:00

A bánh mì, a limonata and a park bench on a sunny day. This is the perfect lunch.

A good bánh mì is hard to find. Little Paris on Clement St. used to be the best, but they closed a couple of years back. Since then, I've tried many places and have been sadly disappointed. It's a simple sandwich to make, but an easy one to screw up. I call this the "kiss factor". The mission is straightforward, like a kiss, two sets of lips coming together. But there are a million ways that it could go awry. But when done right, there's nothing quite like it.

As far as sandwiches go, a good bánh mì is perfection in your palm. It's got all of the flavors, sweet, salty, sour, hot, creamy and zesty. Then, it's got all of the textures, crispy, crunchy, soft and chewy. Then, it's got the hot and cold thing. I mean, really, its perfection almost (and I stress, almost), justifies French colonization of Vietnam. It is the L'arc de Triomphe of sandwiches. The merging of all that is good and holy in handheld food.

So, where did I find this mythical beast?

At the Double K Cafe in San Francisco. Dogpatch neighborhood to be exact. It's a nothing looking diner in the outskirts of town. One morning after I dropped off Bootsie at the doggie daycare, I was catching the train right across from the Double K. As I stood on the platform watching the regulars come in and come out, I wondered to myself, there's nothing in the area, how do they stay in business. Well, I looked it up on my phone and apparently, they have a mean Vietnamese Sandwich! So, the next time I took the day off of work, I went straight to the DK and ordered a sandwich at the counter.

It's a sweet family joint that has no pretense whatsoever. And the prices are insane. Not tenderloin, two dollar insane, because when food becomes that cheap, it gets me thinking about bad things...but this sandwich has freshly grilled chicken, various lunch meat, paté, pickled veg and various bells and whistles on a crispy french roll @ only $5.50. I think I'll try the tofu version next time I call in sick, or leave work early, because they're closed on the weekends.

This is not the lunch I had today, but a faint memory from earlier this month. In fact, today was a long and tiresome day. But I write this post in hopes of being able to look back at the day that I sat in the park and had my perfect lunch under the sun.

Amen.

footprints

2011-05-10T10:56:00.000-07:00

The raccoons are back.

They better not throw around any more furniture, or I'll shoot them dead...with looks that kill.

snake

2011-05-09T21:55:00.000-07:00

Whoa.

Not what you want to come upon when you're on a walk. But there he was, plain as day, stretched out across my path. He must have been at least four feet long.

Bootsie skipped past him. I was right behind her but I didn't see him until I was one step away from him. I stopped in my tracks when I spotted this oily tan body.

Boots had no idea what she left in the dust as I was left staring right at him. Not knowing how quickly such a creature could strike, I dashed past him without a second thought. But it wasn't out of fear for myself, as much as wanting to distract Bootsie from heading back towards me. Who knew what she would do if she came face to face with a live snake. I didn't want her getting tangled up, quite literally, in a surprise encounter. When I caught up to her, I grabbed her collar and leashed her on the spot without raising suspicion. Mission accomplished.

I've always been repulsed and fascinated by snakes. But I know too little to identify his particular kind. He was a beefy fellow, probably three inches in diameter.

He moved rather slowly, perhaps having swallowed a gopher for lunch. Maybe he was moving out of the grass to warm his body under the sun. At one point our eyes met. He froze with his head held up towards me. It was almost as if he were saying, "Go ahead, I'll let it slide this time."

terri & trailers

2011-05-03T13:34:00.000-07:00

I have no intention of turning this into a movie blog, but it's also what's consuming me until Thursday. So I guess that means I am following my own PHAB credo of holding onto things that lift me up (film) and letting go of things that bring me down (work), at least for a few days - I've also maxed out my vacation days so I'm using them.

I probably have said this before, I hate movie trailers. Actually, more specifically, I hate seeing them before I see the actual film. I like to go into a film cold. I don't like a busy-body to tell me what I'm about to see. Life isn't like that. And since most of what film is about is "life", in a broad sense, I don't want to know the players, the what or the how, going in. No stagehand drops in from the sky as you're shaking the hand of somebody new, to whisper in your ear that...

Stagehand: "You two are going to fall in love, get married, have kids and live blissfully together until he has a mid-life crisis and...

(drama) have an affair with your sister...
(comedy) join the rodeo, Hell's Angels, become a drag queen...or
(thriller) pick up prostitutes along the turnpike and become the serial-killer he was destined to be...

And all the sordid details, some of the best one-liners, and plot twists and turns along the way, and still expect you to keep shaking this man's hand, damnit. Let me find out for myself, go away, don't crowd me! (I'm strictly trying to make a point right now, so do warn me if I marry a serial-killer.)

Anyway, this is precisely why I like film festivals. It lets you find out on your own if some no-name film is a diamond in the rough or the worst piece of crap you've ever seen, before the distributor and marketing genius start twirling their mustaches to put together a "package" for the audience.

The festival guide gives you just enough of the premise to let you decide if you're interested. After all, you may not care to see a film about sex-trafficking in Sarajevo (The Whistleblower) or an art-house film theater in Uruguay (A Useful Life).

So why have I been posting trailers? Well, it's 'cause I've already seen these fine films at the SFIFF and it's a diary for myself in case I want to check in with them months from now, after mustaches have been twirled. Plus, it's my blog. So if you haven't yet seen the film, don't click play. But g'head, if you're never going to see the film (that's the other instance I enjoy a trailer - I'm not going to see Scream 4, so I'll sit through it, gladly.). It's really evil in that trailers give you the punchline before the setup.

So I don't think it was a coincidence that the film that I had the least information about was also the best film I've seen this year (Buck). But there's also been a whole lotta' solid films I've seen at the next tier.

This has been quite a preamble to the paragraph that's about to follow, but what can I say, I get really worked up about movies...

Terri
It's a coming-of-age film that made me want to walk into the film and become friends with Terri. If I were his age, I would be friends with him. In fact I think I had friends like this growing up. He's odd, vulnerable and has been dealt a shitty hand in life, but I didn't feel sorry for him because he never strays from his center and doesn't ask for help. He's challenged but not helpless. Terri is authentic and original without sounding like the screenwriter vying for air-time (Juno). This is no small feat by Jason Wysocki, who's starring in his first feature. He has a sincerity that has not yet been robbed by celebrity and that I rarely see these days. It's as if producers keep gems like these locked up in the basement, much like a hoarder would his loot, because they don't know its true worth out in the world or even how to "package" it. But thank god Alison Dickey, one of the film's producers, knew its worth. She is also John C. Reilly's better half, so naturally, he brought his best game to this film. Terri probably won't make a lot of money, but Aza Jacobs, the director, should keep making films. It's an unusual film and I can't quite articulate the structure, but if I could hug a film, I would hug this one.

Today's Bonus - one of the best trailers (and best films) that Hollywood has managed to squeeze out.
http://youtu.be/ojhGdRSkiUw

cowboys & samurais

2011-05-02T12:52:00.000-07:00

I've magnificently skipped a month of blog posts.

This is the longest lapse I've had since starting this blog. I won't explain why now, because I have to squeeze in one May day post to get back on the saddle. This metaphor is especially apropos today, as I started the day with a terrific film about the original horse whisperer, Buck Brannaman; he teaches folks how to saddle a horse and then get on that saddle – and the lessons he teaches reach far beyond horse-handling & ranches.

Buck was this year's Sundance Audience Award Winner. After seeing it, I have to unequivocally agree with the Utah attendees. Ironically, it's not even part of the SFIFF, but rather a surprise screening sprung onto Film Society members at the last minute; only die-hard members got up early on a gorgeous Sunday morning to slip into a dark theater without knowing what they're seeing. Nope, they wouldn't tell us the title of the film until the lights went down – but as the world knows, San Francisco specializes in die-hard members of all kinds.

I've buried myself in movies for the past 11 days. I tried to pace myself, because I realized many film fests ago that I can only enjoy one screening/day, especially in San Francisco, since this is where I live and work. It's stressful running around town. And a film fest is unlike going to a regular film, since you have to line up way early (up to an hour in advance) and stay for Q&A's, that is, if you're interested and still awake. So a 100 minute film could eat up four hours of your time. But every now and then I end up with two, or if I'm really masochistic, three films. Like going to an all-you-can-eat buffet, it seems like a good idea at the time, but you end up regretting it.

If the films are good, I don't have enough time to revel in the afterglow before the next one comes along to overwrite it. And if the films suck, it's like being spit in the face over and over again. Either way, I emerge from the theater feeling like a disoriented mole-rat at the end of it all.

So today was potentially that double-feature day. Luckily, my second screening, 13 Assassins, was at the end of the day. I had a full day to soak in the first film, which was extraordinary. And Meg and I took our time to come down from the high together with a nice long lunch out in daylight with the rest of the world.

I came close to skipping Buck, because I was taking a chance by lining up for a "surprise" film on a Sunday morning. But thank god Meg is more committed than I am in her film-viewing. And I almost missed 13 Assassins, because I mistook the start time by an hour and I hadn't even left the house as people were being seated.

Daniel texts me: We're in line.
K: U hella early. I'm leaving home now.
D: Giddy up KT, the line's moving.
(I check my watch, oh sheet.)
K: I fucked up, I thought it was at 9:30.

But it was at 8:30 and it was 8:30 right then. I still had to get to the theater, park, get my tickets and find them.

He told me it was a packed house and there was no parking, so to park anywhere, even if it's 5 blocks away. I almost turned around. I was happy having seen Buck. I didn't need another movie today. But I remembered my horoscope. It said "there's a good chance that you'll be juggling more than one event on Sunday...". Oh, astrology is such a crock.

I somehow found a spot, ran so fast that my pants were dangerously slipping off my body, while texting and demanding my tickets at will call, I dashed up the stairs and into the theater, right as the lights were going down. Daniel saved me a seat, but I couldn't spot him in a packed house, nor could I keep texting him, so that's how I ended up in back row, Siberia. But sat down in time and didn't miss a frame.

You don't want to be a shadowy figure stumbling around aimlessly and texting in the dark at the Castro. The audience is full of hardcore bitches. That's the only theater where I still hear people hissing when they don't like someone on screen. A few latecomers were getting skewered by hecklers.

"Boy that sure is a nice glow from your smartphone!"

"Find a seat. Sit down!"

Adrenaline pumping, I say, and the movie hadn't even begun.

For 13 Assassins, I was on the edge of my seat the entire time. It was a classic genre film with a few modern nods, but I also had to sit forward largely due to my seat being in the nose-bleed section of the Castro, or specifically, the very last row in the balcony where the film cans are stored. I couldn't have been any closer to the projection booth; I could hear the flick flick flick of the film tail hitting the projector in the booth as it was nearing the end of each reel. Anyway, I didn't care, because I love chambara films, always have; it's a good thing that I didn't need the subtitles 'cause I couldn't see a goddamn word.

This was a crowd-pleasing samurai film. Much in the vein of a good shoot'em-up Western. This slice'em, dice'em, cut'emup bloodbath of a genre film actually paired rather well with the quiet documentary about a lone cowboy, kinda like Johnny Cash singing Nine Inch Nails' Hurt.

But even after 12 hours and a balls to the walls chambara film later, I still can't seem to extricate myself from Buck's world. I'm in awe of his story. Buck was the most moving film I've seen during this year's festival; this is a testament to its strength for outliving a hyper graphic film with a 45 minute long showdown.

"You can't live in two places at one time." he says. He had to leave the past behind in order to become the man he was supposed to be. It may be a while before I can digest all the wisdom imparted by Buck. You just have to experience the film and you'll be a fan, no doubt; I was taken with him in the first 30 seconds of the film.

I know I'll cheapen it if I attempt to describe any more of it, so I won't.

As I was driving myself home after 13 Assassins, I learned that US forces had successfully located and killed Osama Bin Laden.

To step out of a theater where we watched and cheered a group of men assassinate a sadistic tono and be faced with the news that people are watching and cheering a successful assassination that took place the same night (an hour or two) across our nation and around the world was beyond meta.

I doubted my eyes and ears even after sitting through Obama's speech three times.

Life and art are always parroting each other, because they're two sides of the same coin. But I'm becoming increasingly concerned that I'm more likely to buy what's being served to me in a theater over what's being broadcasted as news. They're both scripted, fashioned and edited to convey a point of view, but out in the real world, I'm more like a Castro audience, hissing and jeering at the screen and telling people to sit down.

darko & thompson

2011-03-25T02:47:00.000-07:00

Tonight I watched a double-feature of "Donnie Darko" and "Buy the Ticket Take the Ride: Hunter S. Thompson on Film". I didn't even plan on watching a movie tonight, much less two that {spoiler!} ends with the protagonist killing himself...but I did, and they went together perfectly.

I hadn't seen Donnie Darko since it came out in 2001, right after 9/11. The main event of the film – a hunk of a jet falling from the sky onto a home in suburban VA – was prophetic enough that it scared off even an indie audience. It didn't do well in theaters, but over the years has become a cult hit on DVD.

At the time, it left an impression on me, even though I couldn't explain it. The feeling of the film remained with me, like how a cryptic dream can leave you in a state all day – maybe largely contributed by the 80's soundtrack. Roland Orzabal is one of the best songwriters of that decade and The Hurting is a perfect album. I was soaking in the atmosphere, but I could not retell the narrative back to you if I tried. I barely can tonight after the second viewing and ten years older, at least not much more than schizophrenic teenager self-destructs when he follows the lead of his alter ego, Frank, a 6-foot, demonic rabbit.

New random things that I realized this time around were:

Donnie's therapist was Katherine Ross from Butch Cassidy. This fact somehow got the biggest "Aha!" tonight.
Seth Rogen was also in it, as the bullying jock.
Patrick Swayze has since died of pancreatic cancer.
Frank reminds me a lot of a Hannya (Japanese Noh theater demon)

Drew Barrymore actually plays a character that is someone other than herself. It's a pretty understated role considering she's Executive Producer.

This film, once again, braided my mind into a pretzel; I got frustrated trying to deconstruct it. Time travel has a tendency of doing this anyway, but throw in a big piece of GOD with a chunk of mental disorder and you have a full-blown twister game about to collapse inside your brain.

Even though I can't lay it all out neatly, or logically, I get the idea. It's like a foreign language, you can understand it better than you can speak it.

...as long as I don't get caught up on trying to figure out how Donnie can be haunted by somebody who he's yet to meet (Frank), or if his medication is a placebo, how he is well enough to be in control of his disorder, or how could a piece of the jet from the airplane that his mother and sister are taking in the future fall on their house while they're asleep in the present. Pretzel factory.

So how do I figure that both Donnie Darko and Hunter S. Thompson are led to their death by the perfect cocktail of "fear and loathing" of being alone (or more accurately, being left behind), literary guidance, anti-establishment sentiment, and powerful inner demons, yet, I walk away thinking that they're perhaps saner than they appear.

And then there are the rabbits...

I don't know the significance of rabbits in literature and film.
I personally don't keep company with rabbits, because I'm deathly allergic to them. My eyes are watering just thinking about them being near me with their cotton bottoms.
2011 is the Year of the Rabbit plus it's almost Easter.
Alice kept company with one and Elwood (J. Stewart) did too.

Harvey (1950)

However, I do understand the presence of a "rabbit", or more broadly, a guide, someone that leads me to certain places, to do certain things, with certain people, and present to me facts or knowledge of something that I wouldn't have otherwise encountered on my own. And the combination of all of those circumstances tend to haunt me deeply or change the course of my life forever.

In that sense, I live with a proverbial white rabbit 24/7. I can't shake him and he doesn't stand a chance of getting rid of me. Does this make me a schizophrenic or does it make me unaccountable for any of the choices I make. No, we all meet our guides, and it may be an alter ego, a friend, a lover or an enemy. Whether we choose to follow them, go kicking and screaming or refuse to accompany them is always our choice.

Maybe someday I'll watch the Director's Cut, just so I can listen to Richard Kelly's intent and explanation behind Donnie Darko, however convincing or unconvincing he may be.

It's too premature to unleash all of my thoughts about Hunter S. Thompson. I have to let his conundrum unravel from underneath Darko's pile-up in my brain before I can make sense of either.

But I'll share with you two things that resonated clearly with me from "Buy the Ticket..." I learned that Hunter used to type out novels cover to cover as an exercise of sorts. Novels written by men that he admired, Hemmingway, Faulkner, Mailer, just so he can feel what it's like to write that well as his fingers hit the key.

"I wanted to learn from the best, I guess," he said.

I totally get that. This is not dissimilar to playing Chopin or Beethoven's notes off of a score. That's how I peeked into the greatness of composers who crafted epic stories out of 88 keys. His sentiment moved me so unexpectedly. It was then that I realized that the lore of Hunter being a drug-addled dissident was just the front door to the house of a writer he was inside. Gonzo, the persona, is who we all know and adulate, but Hunter S. Thompson, the writer, was a "supreme Southern gentleman", somebody who had the utmost respect for the power of words, frailty of emotions and love for friends.

Apparently he used to call his friends in the middle of the night. John Cusack said that if a call came in between 12 and 6 he knew it was either Hunter or bad news, or Hunter with bad news. And now that he's gone, his friends know that a 4AM call is always bad news. How I would have loved to have Hunter to talk to in 4AM when I'm awake.

I think I'm going to retype a favorite screenplay this weekend.

So the second piece I'll share is the following essay Thompson wrote for the Spectator in 1955.

Open Letter to the Youth of our Nation

Young people of America, awake from your slumber of indolence and harken to the call of the future! Do you realize that you are rapidly becoming a doomed generation? Do you realize that the fate of the world and of generations to come rests on your shoulders? …Oh ignorant youth, the world is not a joyous place. The time has come for you to dispense with the frivolous pleasures of childhood and get down to honest toil until you are sixty-five. Then and only then can you relax and collect your social security and live happily until the time of your death.

Signed fearfully and disgustingly yours,
John J. Righteous Hypocrite

I think it's time to read some Graham Greene and HST this Spring.

And, maybe watch "Where the Buffalo Roam" (1980), Bill Murray's portrayal of HST.

PS - Tom Thurman directed the HST documentary. Donnie's therapist was named Dr. Thurman; Coincidence? Balderdash.

tsunami warning

2011-03-11T07:37:00.001-08:00

front door

2011-03-10T06:58:00.000-08:00

4:27AM.

I walk out of my living room having peeled myself off the couch after falling sleep with the TV on. This is pathetic and typical.
What's atypical is what happened next.

I walk down the hall to see that my front door is wide open.

"Holy fucking shit."

I've been robbed.

And then, oh my god the kittens.

I don't know how long the door's been open, but it's been at least 5 or 6 hours and the kittens were gone. Bootsie and I slept through the whole thing.

To cut to the chase, no I hadn't been robbed, even though I easily could have been. And after what seemed like hundreds of minutes, but probably more like 3, the kittens came back into the house after I used the oldest trick in the book, rattle the kitty food container.

I hardly debated about publicly announcing what a lucky moron I am right here on this blog - why would I subject myself and my friends to this appalling truth. But I had to tell somebody, and I couldn't call anybody up at 4:31. So here it is. I'm a grade-A moron. And I'm also grade-A lucky, because there are a hundred different ways this scenario could have gone awry.

I had a long conversation with Herman last night after I learned that her father had passed the night before last. She wrote the most beautiful obituary I'd ever read and I was moved to tears; knowing that she probably wouldn't pick up, I called her anyway to send her my love. Much to my surprise, she answered because she was hiding out in her car in her mother's driveway cursing her Korean relatives.

Ironically, and perhaps inappropriately, we had the most hilarious phone conversation where we were laughing until our sides hurt. To unwind from the call, I turned on the TV and happened upon a show on TLC, The Man Who Lost His Face that I could not stop watching.

Even though I was sleepy, I wanted to see what happened to him after Jose traveled from Portugal to Chicago to get this 12-pound tumor removed from his face. Well, I fell asleep anyway, without seeing the conclusion and the rest you know.

Of course I can't fall asleep now because it's almost time to start the day.

All I can say is all's well that ends well, because if I let myself think about what didn't happen (even though I already did) but could have (thank God, Buddha and Allah) I will drive myself to drink and I've stopped drinking. At least for a little while.

They're so trusting and sweet that had it been daytime with birds chirping and people walking they might not have returned so easily to the rattle of kibble. And I think about the raccoons and thieves scoping out the neighborhood. It's actually a miracle that all of us came out unscathed. Not to mention the millions of girl cats that could have been impregnated by my boyz with balls fully in tact. I can't overstate how my mind went reeling with the probable atrocities.

I held the kittens for a long while admiring their small gorgeousness and decided that if I had to attribute an Oscar Best Actor likeness (both personality and attitude) to each of my leading men:

Q would be Franco.

Iggy would be Bardem.

Herman, I dedicate this post to your leading man, the distinguished and honorable, E. Sang Yu.

quartz and the bigot

2011-03-09T00:24:00.001-08:00

Originally uploaded by looseid
The train stopped moving this morning.

The conductor kept announcing, "We're running late. Very very late." over and over again. That's like somebody telling you over and over that you're hungry. It's not helpful at all.

The train was in-between stops and the doors were closed. But unlike the bus, we couldn't just hop off. Liability, I suppose.

So I resigned to the fact that I'm going to be late, very very late and kept working on my crossword puzzle.

That's when the guy across the aisle, who was sleeping this whole time, woke up and pulled out a big hunk of quartz from his coat pocket. It was the size of a large potato (russet, if you must), or a Nintendo DS, for those modern kids out there.

Who carries a quartz that big around. He was shining a bright penlight onto it, which is what caught my eye. It looked like a special quartz-viewing light. If he weren't so stoned (pardon the pun) he looked like he knew what he was doing and I could have mistaken him for a gemologist. (Not really.)

Then he started to speak to it. Or maybe he was thinking out loud. Nonetheless, he put his feet up on the seat like a little kid and kept caressing it and staring into it like it was a fascinating creature. Nothing could penetrate the concentration of this guy.

As odd as it sounds, thank god he was who he was. Because last week I found myself seated in front of a very vocal bigot. He asked a young guy how his "Maker was doing" and when the guy said "what" he repeated calmly,

"Satan. How's he doing today. Isn't that your maker?" and chuckled.

He mumbled about the Fourth and Fifth Reich (?), chanted "Heil, heil!" and repeatedly played canned laughter from a handheld device that he'd point at the back of my head. Each time the maniacal guffaw sounded, I would jump in my seat but tried to keep it together by focusing on my crossword. Oddly enough one of the clues I had already filled was "swastika".

Even though I was on a train car full of "minorities", and that train was running through the heart of one of the most liberal-minded cities in this country, I was still frightened that he might suddenly strike me. His hatred was so incredibly palpable to me, I may as well been a black boy walking alone on a dirt road in rural Mississippi in 1963.

So yes, give me a boy stroking his quartz over a people-hater on the train any day.

I took this photo, not because I wanted to ridicule him, but because I had to text to my colleagues that I was very much stuck on the train and this was happening. Every day I tell them about a woman who was looking at photos of herself in lingerie, a businessman who kept picking out his underwear out of his suit in front of me, the 3-month old pitbull that rested his wee head on my arm or the yo-yo crazed senior who kept showing off his skillz. Because I don't think they really believe me when I tell them about all the crazy shit I see on the train every day, I had to at least chronicle it when I can. I got to work an hour later w/ an alibi.

Ah, how I cherish the camera phone, satellite service and an unsuspecting subject.

café table

2011-03-07T22:10:00.000-08:00

This morning, as I walked out of my front door, I was struck by this strange sight. The café table that's been on my front porch since last summer, the café table that BDB "loaned" to me with a pair a matching chairs, was at the bottom of the stairs upside down, having jumped to its death wedging itself against my front gate in the middle of the night.

This is a cast alloy table that is no lightweight piece of garden furniture, not a plastic bag that flew off the porch. This metal table weighs not a ton, but enough to stay put in the same spot for the last 8 months. I mean, the table was everything short of being bolted into the ground.

However the suicide occurred, the table took with it the flower pot that was sitting on top of it and a couple of brick pavers. What the fuck happened?

I did hear a loud noise late last night, but I simply wrote it off as raccoons. It usually is raccoons. Raccoons are scary, so I don't go outside to check. And if it isn't raccoons, the prospect is even scarier, so I really won't go outside to check.

My next door neighbor was burgled while he slept in the next room a couple of weeks ago. The thief climbed in through a not-quite-shut top window that was facing the street and three stories up. He stole his laptop and wallet and walked himself out the front door. Jacob was only asleep between 3AM and 7AM, so he thinks the thief was staking out the property. CSI came out to dust for prints the next day.

I live in the oldest, smallest house on the block. And with such detritus on the property, I guess they just don't bother to look in, much less climb in [knock on wood]. My house is pretty easy to break into. I've done it myself. If it weren't for the security system, I would never sleep at night. Come to think of it, I don't sleep, ever. I guess I serve as my own sentry...

Anyway, I don't know what happened last night. There was no violent storm that passed through and I saw no signs of a break-in. But from the outside looking it, it sure looks like there was a domestic incident at my house. Broken planters and bricks strewn about. A table hurled from such a height that its leg broke off from the fatal fall, leaving in its wake, a bucket which also split open. None of it, worth a dime anymore.

It must have been the raccoons.

Details #2 + #3 = ideal condition

2011-02-08T21:32:00.000-08:00

Detail #2 - It's early.

"Get here before sunrise." said Bob, the owner.

Not only did I have to get here early, here was 75 miles away. The most charming detail of all was that I forgot to set my alarm clock. Thankfully, I have a built-in panic button in my brain, so I rarely oversleep. Having worked in film production, early call times aren't a deal-breaker, but waking up at 5:42 when we had to leave at 6:00 was a heart-stopper.

This allowed no time for me to 1) wake up, 2) drive the speed limit or 3) get coffee. Three big strikes. Not to mention, the day Laura and I barely wash our faces or drag a comb across our heads ends up being the day that we take the most number of close-up shots of each other.

Again, details.

Detail #3 - It's freezing.

At the crack of dawn, when the air is coldest, hot air rises fast.

I'm very familiar with this lesson in physics, having lived in a poorly insulated Victorian house all these years. During the winter months, if I bother to turn on the most moronic heating device commonly found in San Franciscan homes, the wall unit, the heat goes everywhere I can't be - UP. And since I am not a spider, I get the short end of the stick. Even after a couple of hours of heat blasting, I am still freezing in my sweaters and socks. That's when I walk down the hallway and wave my arms above my head. My fingers immediately taste the 20°+ toasty sensation up there. While this phenomenon is misguided in heating my house, it's what lifted a basketful of people off the ground this morning, so it's a pretty powerful and exhilarating force when applied correctly.

Also, there's something about the air current and there being minimal wind at that time, or some such nonsense.

I arrived layered up like a super burrito, because I didn't want to be uncomfortable. But as we rose up into the sky, the sun followed us closely and wrapped its arm around us. And since we were traveling with the heat source as well as moving along with the wind, it all began to feel pretty perfect. Only once or twice when the pilot lit the fuel, I thought a baby dragon was breathing down my neck.

As we all know, the sun rises only once a day, therefore, the balloon takes off only once a day.

So you better not miss the flight. Because once the atmosphere warms up, there's nowhere for your hot air to go but back home...

Detail #1 - I'm scared of heights.

2011-02-06T14:58:00.000-08:00

This is a problem - normally.

I get weak in the knees walking across a freeway overpass. I try not to look over balcony railings or down a stairwell. I dislike watching people skydive, bungee jump or ride a glass elevator.
So, how did I end up in the sky without a parachute.

Well, I don't know. But it was pretty fucking effortless.
I don't feel right about taking credit for it either, because I was hardly aware of it happening. I didn't know we were lifting off until I saw the ground recede from beneath me.
Nobody even said "Here we go."

We simply floated up like a birthday balloon that you let slip away by mistake. It just goes bye-bye at maximum speed with minimum energy. It's not even running away in a state of panic. It just soars. Within seconds I was staring down at trees and livestock looked like fleas.

Not once did my heart skip a beat while riding this jumbo picnic basket. In fact, without even realizing, I was hanging over the edge taking photos like a good Japanese tourist. No tingles, no dizziness, no thoughts of "what will happen if the floor gives way or if I lose balance".

Turns out, if I want to be somewhere, height doesn't much get in the way.

Recently I watched Man On Wire, a documentary about Philippe Petit, who walked between the Twin Towers on a tightrope in 1974. As I was sitting through this unreal account of an actual event, I couldn't fathom how his grace and ease could exist at such height.
I thought Petit was brilliant, deranged and possibly from outer space.

It premiered at the Sundance Film Festival in 2008. I remember not attending the screening for the very reason I titled this post. The mere thought of watching him in this film made me nauseous.

Now I kind of get him, just a teensy weensy bit.

balloon, part 3 - the details

2011-02-06T14:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I talked about the big picture stuff.

Well, now I'm going to point out the details, the potential niggly-bits.

balloon, part 2 - Laura

2011-01-23T23:48:00.000-08:00

The first thing Laura said to me on our way to dinner was,

"I did a crazy thing and booked a flight on a balloon for us this Friday." She had just arrived at my doorstep 15 minutes earlier from LA. It was Wednesday evening. And we hadn't seen each other in 11 years.

Laura and I bonded over screenwriting in 1999. Our writing instructor asked me if I could give a young writer from Brazil a ride to the workshop, since I was the only one coming from the city. Even though English is her second, maybe even third language, I immediately saw that she was a stronger and better writer than any of the other American writers in our advanced workshop. During our all-day table readings, she and I would literally and figuratively be on the same page about the scenes and characters; our instructor quickly grew reliant on us to solve many of the group's story problems.

We talked on the phone for hours about plot lines and films. When we finally read each others' scripts, we found a kindred spirit in one another and we pushed each other tirelessly during her brief stay in California. We even went down to LA to pitch our stories, but that's a whole other adventure, so I'll leave that for another post.

Even though she returned to Brazil with her husband to resume her writing career at the end of the season, we stayed in touch over the years. And this January, she stole a few days from a quick project in LA to visit her old friend and to do some research in San Francisco.

She's one of few with whom I can skip the formalities and tedium of catching up and dive right into the deep end of the pool. So it came as no surprise, even though I was speechless for a few seconds, that she picked this as the thing for us to do for the day after tomorrow.

The main character in Laura's latest novel rides a hot air balloon.

When she came across a postcard with balloons on the face at the car rental place that day, she knew she had to book it. She didn't know if I'd even be game, but she took a chance.

When I told her that I would do it without thinking twice, she seemed truly surprised.

"Really? You would?"

"Of course," Now it was my turn to surprise her,

"I've been writing a blog for 18 months called Project Hot Air Balloon. I've been waiting to do this!"

I said this as I was parallel parking my car in front the restaurant and we started laughing and screaming hysterically. If there were passersby on the street they probably thought we were murdering each other.

I knew one day I would ride a hot air balloon.

I also knew it would happen in a special way, and that it would be an extraordinary event.

I didn't want to plan it, so I hadn't.

But I did not think that it would happen so soon.
In fact, I thought that it would be a long time from now when I was done with this blog. But now I know that it's only just begun (respect, to Karen Carpenter).

Laura took care of the details. I asked her no questions. I didn't know the where, the who, when what or even the how much of it. None of that mattered. They were details. And this was a big picture day. And I felt in my bones that everything was all happening as it should.

I told my boss on Thursday that I wouldn't be coming in on Friday. Again, details.

It's been 11 years since we last saw each other, but we're picking up right where we left off. In fact, during our time apart, we both experienced a lot of wonderful, tragic, frightening, inspirational, terrible, joyous, blissful and unspeakable things that either kept us writing or kept us from writing. As we're about to grow into our next stage as writers, our paths are crossing once again, now with actual experience under our belts, not just twenty-something know-it-all theories about life.

Laura and I talked non-stop for three days. We drank, we ate, we ran around town, we caught up and made some big picture plans. We learned a good lesson inside this wicker basket, and that the details take care of themselves if you go after the extraordinary events.

Thank you, Laura.

* NOTE: This is a big deal, so I'm going to be posting a few more times about the event. Just brace yourself.

balloon

2011-01-21T09:11:00.000-08:00

I did it!

men's shirts

2011-01-19T00:01:00.000-08:00

One lavender, one navy. Both from the long-gone Cloak in Soho. Both had cracked buttons and I offered to replace them for Phil. He brought them to me after he found out that I had a serious collection of buttons comprised of mother of pearl, wood, plastic, Bakelite, porcelain, shells, glass, the list goes on. It was a task that should have taken about 15 minutes, tops. That was in 2009, over 18 months ago and the buttons are still cracked.

I kept walking past the shirts hanging in the laundry room. Like most simple tasks, I didn't bother setting aside time to complete it because it was stupid simple. I knew that I could do it any day. So naturally, this got pushed off for a year and a half, until it became an embarrassment. I couldn't even bring it up to him, not even to apologize.

Well, he finally let me off the hook this weekend. He asked about the shirts when we were hanging out. I apologized profusely and returned them both to him as he last saw them.

"I don't think I even like this shirt anymore.", he said as he looked over the lavender shirt.

He thought that he should have taken them to the tailor in the first place and that I shouldn't feel badly about it. Initially I stopped him from going to the tailor's because I didn't think that he should pay for such a simple fix. This happened right before I started this blog, ten days before I put Bibi down.

I needed the distraction of somebody else's menial task more than he needed to save a few dollars. And as long as I could hold off on finishing said menial task, I would remain distracted.

It looks like I no longer need the distraction.