Triggerstreet

Now the holidays are upon us, a time of goodwill and fellowship; a time of giving. No doubt many of you are thinking: What can I do for Rich Eastman? Well, there is something you can do, and the best part is -- it doesn't cost a thing.

I have submitted one of my screenplays to Kevin Spacey's new website Triggerstreet.com. The idea is to provide a forum for undiscovered talent (like me) by creating a cyber-community of filmmakers and writers. The way it works is, I post my screenplay and other writers, filmmakers, and community members review it. The reviews include a simple rating system. The top ten scripts with the highest rating average get a chance to make a deal with Spacey's production company.

But you need at least ten reviews to get ranked, and the problem is, there are hundreds and hundreds of scripts and it's been hard to get people to review mine. Most people seem to be interested in reading one of the scripts already ranked in the top ten and don't take the time to browse around the site and see what else is out there.

Like, for example, a true life adventure about a young Navy Captain (PETER) serving in Vietnam who rescues a 10 year old Vietnamese girl (LUNG) who has lost a leg in a "friendly fire" incident. During her recovery the two form a bond that transcends differences in age and nationality. Their lives are brutally disrupted, however, by the ravages of war and their paths diverge. Years later, when Lung needs someone's help to bring her and her young daughter to America, she reaches halfway around the globe and finds her bond with Peter has endured.

So, if you feel like reading a really good screenplay and helping out your fellow man (me) at the same time. Why not log on to Triggerstreet.com, follow the simple sign-up procedure, click on 'search', then click on 'screenplays' and type Echoes of the Mekong. You will be directed to the page where my script is posted and you can download it, read it and review it. One complication, I uploaded the script in Final Draft format which is a common software among screenwriters, but most folks will require a viewer (which you can download for free.) If you'd rather not download the viewer, I'd be happy to send you a copy of the script in Word format. That may not be completely kosher as far as the rules are concerned, but we'll just make it our little secret, eh?

You can also view and review short films on the website and in fact I have uploaded three segements of my short Dante's View. Unfortunately, there seems to be a system glitch and several people have complained that they cannot view my movies. I myself am unable to view them using the website. Viewing the movies requires certain software, all of which is free and some of which you may already have. Mine require Quick Time and that is the one causing all of the problems. I'd be very interested to hear from anyone who attempts to view one of my shorts, to find out if you were successful and what kind of system you are using. I think the problem has something to do with the codec. I have no idea what a codec is. Click on 'search' then 'members' and type 'myrdhinn' and you will be directed to my homepage where all of my uploads are available.

I don't want anyone to cheat by writing me a glowing review without reading the script (or watching the movie.) Of course how would I know? How would anyone know? But seriously, don't feel compelled to say nice things if you don't like the script. Go ahead and say whatever you think, just give me a really high rating. (By the way, if you do rate the script, remember that "pass" does not mean the same as "pass/fail" it means "we liked your script Richard, but I'm afraid we're going to pass on it.")

Any and all support will be greatly appreciated. It's actually kind of fun to browse around the site and check out scripts and films and reviews. The other day I wrote a critical review of some guy's film and he send me a long explanatory email telling me what it was supposed to be about. I had to write back and tell him that I understood what it was about, I just didn't like it.

So check it out and have fun. Who knows, you may become hooked on it just like I am.

I hope everyone is having a wonderful holiday season. Thanks for listening.

Love, Rich

I wish...

No matter how hard you try to avoid it, every year it happens again. The first sign is when I start seeing pumpkins. They start popping up in early October, soon followed by skeletons, vampires, ghosts and other symbols of evil and death. These harbingers of doom remind me of the encroaching horror that awaits, consecrated in an annual ritual of ancient origin known as: my birthday.

See, my birthday comes right after Halloween, so whenever I start seeing Halloween decorations I know that I'm about to get another year older. The fact that my birthday coincides with a pagan festival celebrating the passage into the world of the dead helps put things in perspective. I'm not getting older, I'm getting deader.

This never used to be a problem. For many years I looked forward to the Halloween season because it was really just a prelude to my special day. Going out to get pumpkins was the unofficial start of my birthday season. Picking out costumes, stocking up with candy, the whole trick or treat thing... These were just warm-ups before the real event. My day. The day of me. What a great day, presents cake, ice cream, all your friends are there. People sing, play games, have fun, and it's all about me!

I think the last really good birthday I had was freshman year in college. I had a bunch of new friends and some old ones too. We all got together in my dorm room and listened to Steve Martin's "Let's Get Small" album which was my hallmates' gift to me. They sang and gave me a cake with candles. It was a lot of fun, but it was kind of the end of the innocence. The next year I had a mid-term the day after my birthday so I had to study instead of party. Not that I couldn't do both, mind you, but I was just a sophomore and I was still trying to take college seriously.

After that birthdays started to lose their significance. Either I was busy doing something else or I was off by myself somewhere. The clincher was when I turned twenty-five. I was so sick with food poisoning that I spent the whole day throwing up. Birthdays never seemed quite the same after that.

For a long time I pretty much just avoided my birthday. Not because of getting older, but because it seemed like a kid's thing. If I wanted a present, I could always go out and get one. Same with cake. It never seemed like it was worth the trouble. Other people I knew still celebrated their birthdays, and that was cool. And certain friends of mine could always be counted on to call me on my birthday. I always admired them for that. I can never remember anyone's birthday. It's just another day, right? No big deal.

But this year was different. I'd done a pretty good job of avoiding telling anyone at work about my birthday. Still, they find out. And in the past I reluctantly took part in the festivities, even though it seems kind of silly for a bunch of grownups in a business office to be singing Happy Birthday and blowing out candles. It's kid stuff.

I guess this year I finally decided that being in denial isn't as much fun as being the center of attention. So instead of trying to avoid my birthday, I went around telling everyone about it and invited them for cake and ice cream. I even went out and bought party hats. I led everyone in a rousing chorus of Happy Birthday, made a special wish and blew out the candles. And you know, it was fun.

I think that one of the things you learn as you grow older and wiser is that trying to be cool and aloof and above it all is a big waste of time. It's much less work to be goofy and have fun.

I wish that everyone could come to my birthday and we could all wear dumb hats and eat cake and sing off-key and make stupid jokes about getting old. That's my birthday wish. I also want to wish happy birthday to everyone else. I know I don't always remember when they are, but they are definitely worth celebrating. And may all your wishes come true.

"Old Man" Dick

Serpentine!

I dreamed I was running last night. This is not unusual. I often dream that I am running, especially when I haven't been running for a while. (I always wonder if I burn more calories when I dream that I'm running, as opposed to, say, flying.) What was unusual about the dream was that I was running from a sniper.

I haven't been paying much attention to the news lately. I've been working on a screenplay and basically shutting out as much of the outside world as possible. That way I can create a fictional world where things happen that I can understand. But the news tends to seep in no matter what you do to stop it. Like mildew.

I know that we are still planning to invade Iraq, even though we still haven't come up with a really good excuse. I know that the terrorists attacked Bali, which just seemed so remote until I learned about the local surfer who was there for his 41st birthday and got killed in the blast. His friends are wearing t-shirts that say "Terrorists Don't Surf."

And I keep hearing about this sniper in Maryland.

In my dream I was running through a park and I remember thinking that I should keep zig-zagging so that he couldn't get a bead on me. I learned that from a movie called The In-Laws. Peter Falk plays a CIA agent who gets dentist Alan Arkin involved in a dangerous mission. At one point, Arkin has to run past a sniper while Falk coaches him from the sidelines: "Serpentine, Shel, serpentine!"

It was clear in the dream that the reason I was running was to provide a target for the sniper, hoping to draw his fire so the FBI could catch him. I was even wearing red. I had been thinking before I went to bed that I wished there was something I could do to help. Apparently this was the brilliant idea I came up with. The beauty of the imagination is that it is always trying to make sense out of things that make no sense.

They showed a guy on TV filling up at a local Maryland gas station. He looked nervous. Two or three of the sniper's victims were shot while at gas stations. Naturally I thought of a scene from The Jerk where a sniper is trying to shoot Steve Martin and instead keeps puncturing oil cans. Martin sees what's happening and shouts "He hates the cans! Stay away from the cans!" I remembered reading about one of the Rangers who was pinned down by enemy fire in Mogadishu when the two Black Hawk helicopters went down. He and his buddy watched as the Somali gunfire riddled the tail section of the wrecked chopper with bullet holes. The Ranger turned to his buddy and yelled, "They hate the cans! Stay away from the cans!"

Making jokes seems inappropriate, and yet we can't stop them. If you can't make sense out of something, maybe the next best thing to do is make fun of it.

I was watching West Wing last week and President Bartlett was talking to Sam about how no one seems to be able to come up with a solution to the big mess we've gotten ourselves into and so we just keep killing each other. Later Sam tells the President that he, for one, hasn't given up trying to come up with a solution. If things become too overwhelming, sometimes it seems like giving up is the only option. But if we can make a joke, take a step back, be imaginative, maybe we can come up with something that no one has ever tried before.

Who knows, maybe running around with a big red target painted on your ass will help catch a sniper. Just remember: Serpentine! Serpentine!

Love, HWD

Yom Kippur

I passed several orthodox Jews on my way to work today and it got me thinking about atonement. First of all, what is it? And second, atonement for what? I did a little research on the subject via the Internet and found out it has to do with forgiveness. It reminded me of a conversation I overheard a little while back about the "trouble" in the middle east. That's what we call it when innocent people are murdered in the streets: "trouble". Anyway this one guy said he heard on a talk show that the reason the Arabs and the Jews are unable to stop fighting each other is because they don't believe in Jesus. And since Jesus invented forgiveness, that means they don't have the concept of forgiveness in their cultures and so they just keep on hating each other. I really wanted to smack these idiots for being such narrow-minded, boneheaded bigots. But I thought, considering the circumstances, it was better to forgive them.

It is astounding to me how rampant ignorance is and how easily people will believe anything they hear on the radio, or see on TV, or read on the Internet, or in an email... On 60 Minutes a few weeks ago they did a story about how most Muslims seem to believe that the attack on the World Trade Center was engineered by Israeli intelligence and that 4000 Jews who worked there were called that morning and warned not to go into work that day. This is gospel truth to hundreds of thousands of people, many of them supposedly well-educated and intelligent. And it was apparently started by some misquoted news story that hit the Internet and spread like wildfire. Perhaps we have moved from the Information Age into the Misinformation Age.

Or more accurately the Disinformation Age.

There have been so many "leaks" to the media about our "plans" to "invade" Iraq, I'm starting to wonder if the Pentagon isn't really just a big P.R. agency. Maybe we aren't really planning to invade Iraq at all, maybe we're just trying to create a "buzz." If the word of mouth is good and the project seems to have legs, we can develop it into a concept and try and get some backing. If we can line up the foreign markets and pre-sell the distribution, we'll be sure to get greenlighted for production. And if that happens, we can always hire someone to write a battle plan. Hell, it practically writes itself. I mean it's a sequel after all, how hard can it be?

And what about this big "misunderstanding" involving the Shoney's waitress and the three middle-eastern medical students? First they were terrorists with bombs. Then it was all just a hoax. Now they're persecuted minorities accusing everyone of racial profiling. I'll tell you whose being profiled: that poor waitress at Shoney's. Don't tell me you haven't repressed a snicker yourself once or twice picturing poor old Eunice dutifully writing down the plate numbers of three alleged terrorists who were probably just messing with her head.

So what does all of this have to do with forgiveness? Apparently what one is being forgiven on the day of atonement is breaking a promise made to God. So what promise have I ever made to God? Thou shalt not kill? That's a place to start. But do you really get forgiven for that? I think there's something more basic than that. Something like what happens when your parents leave you on your own for the first time. They say "Be good." But they know that as soon as they leave we're going to go hog wild, jumping off the roof and having keg parties and what not. What they really mean is "Try not to hurt each other, and don't burn the place down."

I think that's all that God wants us to do. When he left us here, I think he made a deal with us that we could have the place to ourselves as long as we didn't hurt each other and we didn't burn the place down.

So I think it's a good idea, at least once a year, to take responsibility for your sins. And it's nice to think that if you do, you will be forgiven. Our parents forgave us when they came home one night and found the kitchen table broken in two and the backyard littered with beer cans. And I think that's because we didn't try to talk our way out of it. We admitted our sins. We didn't try to blame it on the godless next-door neighbors or the evil white-trash party-crashers. Even if it was their fault.

In the Disinformation Age, nobody takes responsibility for anything, because nothing is true. It's all a hoax or a spin or a hype or a ploy or a cover story or a red herring or a scapegoat or some other figment of the underdeveloped imagination.

So forgive me Lord, for I have sinned. I hated the bad guys and cheered the good guys. I felt relieved when bombs went off places other than here. I tried to ignore the suffering of others because it made me uncomfortable. I was glad that it didn't happen to me. And I promise to try harder this year to be good.

Peace.

The Once and Future King

Twenty five years ago, my Mom, my pal Mark Bush and I were driving in a wood-paneled Mercury Montego wagon through Pennsylvania on the way to my first semester at Wesleyan. On the car radio, we heard the news that Elvis was dead. That night we stopped at a non-descript roadside motel somewhere along route 80. We sat in the room that night and watched a special tribute on TV. It was kind of weird, because at the time, I had all but forgotten about Elvis -- he had kind of disappeared from view. The last I remember seeing him was the 1973 Aloha special from Hawaii. I remember being particularly grossed out by the fact that these women would throw their scarves (and underwear) onto the stage and Elvis would wipe his sweaty face with them and throw them back. This was right before Elvis ballooned into the super-fat Elvis of the final days, but wearing that leather-spangled karate suit and pumped up on methedrine and vitamin B, he must have been sweating like a racehorse. He put on a great show, though and that's really the way he should be remembered.

My first memories of Elvis are probably from the mid-sixties, when Elvis was holed-up in his Beverly Hills mansion making movie after movie about how cool it is to be Elvis. There was this kid named Kenny Ray Davis in my third grade class who came in one morning with his hair slicked back and singing the title song from "Girls! Girls! Girls!" which had played on TV the night before. Right then and there, Kenny Ray Davis became the coolest guy in the class. And even though I wasn't sure exactly what it was Elvis was doing with all of those girls, I knew that one day I would forswear the mama's boy bangs that hung down over my forhead and slick my hair back like Elvis. And then I would be cool like Kenny Ray Davis and I'd be surrounded by Girls! Girls! Girls!

It took several years before I worked up the courage to actually start combing my hair back. First I tried just parting it on the side and combing it over. I stuck with that for a while. Eventually I got around to combing it back, but now it makes me look more like my Dad than like Elvis. But I still think it's cool.

The next Elvis sighting was the 1968 comeback special, where Elvis proved that he still had what it takes to rock our world. He even brought back the original guys who he played with at Sun Studios and ran through a set of the songs that first made him King. My favorite of those was "One Night With You", a bluesy gospel number with a barrelhouse roll that paid homage to the likes of early R&B greats like Lloyd Price and Ray Charles.

After that, Elvis popped up only now and then, 'Suspicious Minds' and 'In the Ghetto' in 1969, 'Kentucky Rain' in 1970, 'Burning Love' in 1971, the Aloha special in '73... But he was overshadowed by the Beatles, the Stones and a whole generation of others. It wasn't until years later that I went back and listened to those great '56 and '57 recordings and watched some of the the concert films from the 70's that I truly appreciated the gift he had. True, he squandered it in every way imaginable, but at the heart of it was a real genius for recognizing the essence of a song and delivering it with incomparable style and charisma. That's why he lives on, because he found the universal truths expressed in the songs he chose and shared them with the audience in a way that made you believe that he was speaking from his own personal experience. And sometimes he was. He was essentially a storyteller and his life was a fable. Even at the end, fat and wasted and paranoid, he still had that spark of coolness that propelled him from Tupelo to Memphis to Hollywood to Vegas and on into posterity.

I prefer to remember Elvis as the guy who slicked back his hair and sang about girls and made me think that someday I could be cool too. I needed that back in Louisville all those years ago. I still need it.

Thank you, Elvis. Thank you very much.

Elvis is in the House

Seems like nothing ever happens anymore without somebody videotaping it. Besides the ubiquitous news vans, security cameras, traffic cams, police cams and such, apparently everyone in America owns a handy-cam and is videotaping each other and/or themselves 24 hours a day. Especially when they're having illicit sex. I guess plain old illicit sex just doesn't cut it anymore, not when you can memorialize your indiscretions and at the same time provide incontrovertible evidence against yourself once you're indicted. And with all of the unbelievably weird and unsavory video tapes out there, it kind of makes you wonder how many there are that we don't know about.

You probably heard about the guy who videotaped the cops in Inglewood beating up that poor kid at the gas station. And when the video taper himself got arrested, there were at least three cameras rolling to capture that incident for posterity as well. It's all stirred up a lot of the unspoken racial tension that hangs ominously over our heads like thick, choking smog. We all know it's there, but we try to ignore it. Well, I was in Inglewood that night and I witnessed a totally different phenomenon. And while it did involve several video cameras and a certain amount of racial tension, the result was as refreshing as a cool ocean breeze that, for a little while, clears out all the smog and cleanses our souls a bit too.

My friend Jimmy is a singer-songwriter and we've been playing music together for about six months. Jimmy has written about a dozen or so songs that are pretty damn good and he sings them with a voice that some have described as a cross between Roy Orbison and Etta James. We've had a lot of fun playing small gigs around town, but Jimmy wants to take it to the next level. He's recorded a CD with six of his songs and it sounds amazing. I've been pushing him to send it around to record companies, but he says we need to build up our gigs and get some folks to notice us before the record companies will bother to listen.

Meanwhile I have this other friend named Erika who is interested in acting, but because of her 'sophisticated professional' look she seems to get picked a lot for host/spokesperson type gigs. Which is cool with her because she likes that kind of thing. She's also interested in music and has a law degree and is considering doing talent management. A few weeks back she auditioned for this fledgling cable TV variety show and got the gig as the host of the show. Right now they're just putting together some acts for a pilot to shop around and build up some interest. Erika asked me if Jimmy was interested. He was. So, the other night Jimmy and I drove down to Inglewood so Jimmy could tape his spot for the show.

Now, it so happens that Erika is black and the show that she is doing is mainly focusing on hip-hop, rap and R&B. They're open to all kinds of music, but being that the show is taped in Inglewood, a predominately African American community, and the people in charge are mostly black and hispanic, those are the kinds of acts they have attracted so far. Which is one reason Erika encouraged us to go down there: to try and widen the appeal of the show by including more "diversity." See, Jimmy is a white person (as am I) and his music tends more toward the Mary Chapin Carpenter side of the spectrum than the Mary J. Blige side.

So we walk into the studio, quite conspicuously the only white boys in the room. Possibly the only white boys in the entire zip code. We listened to a few acts, mostly rappers, one or two young girls singing semi-inappropriately suggestive R&B songs. Jimmy turns to me and says "What the hell am I going to sing?" We settled on a song of his called Riverdeath which he wrote about a Native American woman he met in a nursing home who dreamed alternately of her long last past and her hoped for salvation, both represented by a rushing river. It's a kind of heavy song lyrically but from listening to what the other folks were doing, there was a definite spiritual thread woven through most of the raps. Besides, Jimmy doesn't sing any suggestive R&B songs.

We felt a little out of place, despite the fact that everyone was really nice to us. You could tell people were curious about what we were doing there. At one point when Jimmy was talking to the director, the girl in front of us turned around and asked me what kind of music Jimmy did. I said, "I guess it's kind of country, kind of folkie..." She nodded politely, "uh-huh..." Jimmy was getting nervous, "what if nobody claps when I'm done?" "They have to," I said, "the director makes them." That didn't encourage him much.

The act that went on before Jimmy was outstanding. A woman named Eebony who looked and moved like a young Tina Turner, but could rap like Ice Cube, except her rhymes weren't about gangsters, rather about unity and self respect. She really knocked us out. What a tough act to follow; she electrified the place.

Then it was Jimmy's turn. As the opening Nashville-twanged guitar licks filled the studio, I thought, "boy are we in the wrong room." But then something amazing happened. I noticed people were listening to the lyrics and totally responding. And Jimmy's voice never sounded better; he sang like he meant every word. Which, in fact, he did. By the second verse people were literally cheering him on. The song ends with rousing coda and even before the playback faded, the audience broke into spontaneous heartfelt applause. Suddenly, I was the second most popular guy in the room. Everyone turned to congratulate me and tell me how great he was. Hell, all I did was drive the car. Several other performers got up to come over and compliment Jimmy. And, coolest of all, Eebony said she wanted to sing with him sometime and gave him her number.

We drove home that night filled with wonder and excitement. To go from the apprehension we'd felt when we first got there to the near-adulation we experienced at the end of the evening was an amazing transformation. I was inspired by the power of music to reach beneath the superficialities that seemed to separate us and reveal a truth and a communion that has always and will always exist. It reminded me of the beginning of Elvis's career when he was able to cross racial boundaries and reach black audiences and white audiences equally and with a similar enthusiasm and joy. What a great night.

I didn't hear about the other incident in Inglewood that night until after that weekend. Now everybody knows about it and we have all been reminded of the divisiveness and mistrust that plagues our society. But I wish everyone who saw that other tape could have seen what I saw that same Friday night in Inglewood, because then they'd know -- that isn't the whole story. Not by a long shot.

Peace,
Rich

Bye Bye Bri

When I first heard that Brian and Romy were planning to move back east, my immediate reaction was: "Can I have your apartment? I mean, boy am I going to miss you guys! Can I have your apartment?" Admittedly the apartment market out here is nowhere near as cutthroat as New York and I had no excuse for my selfish and insensitive outburst. It's just that Brian had this great apartment with lots of windows and covered parking and really low rent. I couldn't help myself.

The truth is, I am going to miss Brian and Romy, who, by the way recently got engaged and are about to embark on a cross country move back to New York. Other than my cousins in the Valley, Brian was the first person I knew in LA. He moved out here about a year before I did to work for an ultra-hip architecture firm in Santa Monica. During my first few months in town, he let me use his apartment to write spec scripts while he was at work. That was his old apartment, which wasn't nearly as nice as the new one. But it was in a great neighborhood and I spent a lot of time wandering around there and eventually found a place nearby. I liked the fact that I was in easy walking distance of Bri's place. It made it seem more like home.

I met Brian several years ago when we were both temping at a law firm in New York. I was living in Brooklyn and needed a new roommate and Brian's lease was up, so he moved in. We got along very well and Brian ended up joining the men's group I was in and becoming one of my "brothers." After a few months or so, Brian quit the temp job and started working on his portfolio for architecture school. He wanted to apply to Harvard. He spent all day every day for three or four months drawing, designing, even building furniture -- like the famous "scissor chair" and the cantilevered bookshelf. The work must have paid off because Brian went to Harvard.

I saw Brian off and on while he was at Harvard -- whenever he was in town he'd show up at a men's group meeting and catch us up on his adventures in architecture. When he graduated, he headed off to California where the streets were paved with architecture firms. Brian worked for a firm that seemed to have at least a dozen other Harvard grads. Whenever there would be a party or other social gathering, Brian would invite me along. I think of the first twenty people I met in LA, at least half were Harvard educated architects.

On weekends, Brian and I liked to go hiking. Brian was great at picking out new trails to explore. We invited others along on our adventures and it soon became a regular thing. For a while there we had a group of about fifteen hikers in our gang. We dubbed ourselves "Hike Club."

Meanwhile, Brian's Mom was busy making sure her son would find the right woman to settle down with. She put out the word to her West Coast contacts and set Bri up on a couple of dates. I was amazed. What a deal! I think it was about the second or third of these setups where Brian met Romy. Right from the start I knew that Romy was a keeper. For one thing, she liked hiking and even when Hike Club fizzled out, the three of us continued to hit the trails frequently. Plus, she was generally up for adventure, not one of these high-maintenance chicks, but a real trooper. Smart, beautiful, funny... What's not to like?

Eventually, they moved in together and I knew where that was headed. Bri got laid off at the architect firm, but at about the same time got a gig designing a house for his aunt Viv out on Long Island. Romy hadn't really expected to stay in LA long-term, she's a psychologist and mainly came out here to take a one or two year job as a counselor to troubled kids. So, about six months ago they started making plans to move back east. And that's when I started making plans to take possession of their apartment.

A Lesson for the Kids: We decided to call Brian's landlord and introduce me and tell him that I was interested in renting the apartment. We figured he'd be happy to not have to go through the hassle of finding new tenants. He could even raise the rent a bit and I wouldn't mind. Well, I did talk to him and he wasn't sure how much he was going to raise the rent because he was thinking of doing some remodeling. He said he would get back to me. I waited about a week and called him and he told me that the apartment was promised to someone else. What? But I called first! That's not fair! He didn't care. When I told Brian, he said maybe he should have just sublet the place to me, the rent would have stayed the same and no one would have been the wiser. But no, we had to be honest and legal -- and we got screwed.

Oh well. Looks like I'll be staying in my tiny apartment for a little while longer. This weekend I went out and bought some shelves so that I could move all of the stuff that's piling up on my floor. Saturday night I had dinner with Brian and Romy at a fancy Mexican place in my neighborhood. They're leaving at the end of the week. Things just won't be the same around here. I guess I'll have to go out and make some new friends.

Maybe I should call Brian's Mom...

Happy Pop's Day
Love HWD

This Is Not A Hoax

Sorry that this month's newsletter is a few days late. (Not that anyone besides my Mom would notice.) But I've been battling a virus recently... No, not that virus -- although I am still battling the mystery virus that has had me walking around like a zombie with ADD for the past two months. The other virus I've been battling lately is even more insidious. That's because it's a computer virus.

Now, before you get worried, rest assured that I have completely rid my computer of this diabolical infestation, thanks to the help of my computer savvy sister Cindy who sent me a little program specifically designed to wipe out the so-called "klez" virus. Thanks Sis.

The klez virus is actually kind of ingenious, not only does it get into your email file, but it also infects your anti-virus software, causing it to shut down. That's why you need the special klez-fix program to wipe it out. Then you have to remove and replace your infected anti-virus software. Who comes up with this nasty stuff?

According to my friend Erika, it's all those geeks waiting in line to see Star Wars.

This klez virus got into my hard drive and started sending out emails that pulled lines of dialogue from some of my screenplays and put them in the subject line and then included entire screenplay files as attachments! I realized this was happening because I received one at my email address at work. The sender was random, but the subject line was strangely familiar. And when I looked at the attachment, I recognized one of my own screenplays!

In a way, it is kind of impressive, but why go through all this trouble just to create random irritation? Why can't all of this computer-geek knowledge and ingenuity be harnessed for the benefit of society, instead of for the purpose of perpetrating childish pranks?

How, you ask? I have a few ideas:

The NRA virus - this virus would get into the bank accounts of the National Rifle Association and reroute all funds to the National Endowment for the Arts. How hard could that be? NRA gets changed to NEA, no big deal.

The Al-Qaida virus - this one's a little trickier, it would have to track all of those terrorist emails that the NSA has picked up and trace them back to the source. Then it gets inside the terrorist's computer, waits for the terrorist to fall asleep and creates a massive circuitry overload that shorts out the computer and causes an electrical fire that burns down the terrorist's house. Now that would be an impressive virus, not to mention patriotic.

The Chain-Breaker virus - this one is the most beneficial to society of all. This virus would seek out anyone who forwards an email that contains either:

A) A cloying series of reasons to feel "blessed," coupled with a threat of bad luck to whomever fails to "share" the hokey sentiments with at least five other suckers.

B) An absurdly illogical "promise" that Bill Gates and/or Santa Claus will pay cash money to anyone dimwitted enough to forward said "promise" to all of their equally dimwitted friends. By using highly sophisticated email "tracking" software designed by psychics, Bill and/or Santa can tell whose been naughty and whose been nice and reward them accordingly.

C) A "warning" that every household product in common use today contains enough toxins to completely wipe out the human race or at least cause a nasty rash that won't go away. These bogus "warnings" are often accompanied by helpful links to websites that offer special "all-natural" products that contain nothing whatsoever.

Anyone who forwards these such emails will be instantly targeted by the Chain-Breaker virus which will erase the offender's hard drive and then replace every file with illegal porn, while at the same time contacting the local FBI office and providing them with a complete dossier of the subject along with samples of the objectionable material. Let them see how it feels to receive unwanted and offensive crap via the Internet!

If any of you know any computer-geeks, hackers or overly-enthusiastic Star Wars fans, feel free to pass along my ideas to them. I believe these kids are simply looking for an outlet for their energies and talents. Let's give them something to be proud of! Let's give them a reason to become a part of society instead of an anathema to it. Let's make this cyber-community a wholesome place where honest, red-blooded Americans can go about their business, using their computers for decent and good-natured purposes like peeking into coed dormitory shower rooms or arguing about how many times Captain Picard broke the Prime Directive on 'Star Trek - The Next Generation.'

Please forward this email to five other people within the next five minutes. If you do not, you will be visited by a plague of festering boils.

Have a blessed day!

For information on DHMO, a widely used yet completely unregulated chemical compound that has been shown to be linked a wide range of human diseases, and possesses tremendous physically destructive capabilities, please use the following link: http://www.dhmo.org/facts.html

Stay clean, everybody.
Love HWD

You Always Believed in Something

I've been asleep for the past four days. I had gum surgery last week and the next day I entered into some kind of energy vortex like the ones they have on Star Trek, where no matter what you try to do, the warp engines just can't produce enough power to get you moving. The only thing left to do is to shut down all systems and drift forward on short bursts of impulse power. (Star Trek marathon on cable this weekend.) So I cashed in a couple of sick days and went horizontal.

Ever since I got back from D.C., I've been dragging my ass around like it was made of lead and my head was full of sand. I spoke to my doctor this morning, just before visiting my tax advisor, and he said it sounds like I have a 'viral syndrome'. This is not to be confused with the 'China Syndrome' in which a nuclear meltdown burns a hole through the earth's core and out the other side, nor is it in anyway related to the notorious 'Vinyl Syndrome' which is characterized by the refusal to purchase digitally recorded music of any kind and the steadfast belief that no good music has been released since 1978. A viral syndrome is some kind of mysterious disease that can only be cured by lying around for days watching videos and drinking lots of chocolate soy-shakes.

About the only part of my brain that remains operational is the part that likes to make up stuff. While lying in bed half-awake/half-asleep for hours on end, the semi-coherent babbling of my internal monologue starts to develop irritating repetitions that echo in my brain over and over threatening to rob me of what little sanity I have left. So, I write them down and call them "songs".

This particular song started out about someone who represented a certain kind of passion and hopefulness that I always admired. As I added verses, I discovered that there were others who shared that spirit and who have served as examples of how I would like to live my life, if I could only stay awake long enough to try.

Anyway, two people in particular are currently giving me inspiration: they happen to be my sisters. Susan is preparing to celebrate the 10th anniversary of The Buttonwood Tree, the bookstore/art gallery/performance space/cultural mecca she founded and has nurtured from seed to blossom. Cindy is in the process of completing her master's degree after having sacrificed her career goals to raise a family and then been plunged back into the work force as a single mom and starting all over from scratch.

It's cool to have a dream, and I think my sisters are pretty cool for believing in their dreams.

Here's a song for them.

You Always Believed in Something

When the party ended
And all the walls came down
You just kept on dancing
Around and around

After the flood was over
And everything was dry
You stood upon the mountain
Expecting to fly

You always believed in something
When all was said and done
You always believed in something
For everyone

In the dead of winter
When spring was far away
You were looking forward
To a brand new day

All along the highway
That stretches to the sea
Two of us were hoping
To be free

You always believed in something
When all was said and done
You always believed in something
For everyone

You looked so high
We thought you would never die
But I was still waiting for the fall
And if we tryTo live without all the lies
It might have been worth it after all

As the fog was lifting
We stood at the gates of dawn
You wanted the moment to linger
On and on

And if there is a future
Where all our dreams come true
It might not seem so distant
If I could be with you

'Cause you always believed in something
When all was said and done
You always believed in something
For everyone


Now it's time for my nap.

Love, Rich

The Golden Dickie

Last week at about this time, I was sitting in a pub in Silver Spring Maryland with my good friends Dave and Kevin. I was in town to attend the D.C. Independent Film Festival. Kevin drove down from New Jersey for the occasion and picked me up at the airport on his way. Dave was playing local host and had brought us to one of his favorite hangouts to toast the occasion with a pitcher or two of beer. It was a great start to a great weekend and made me realize how lucky I am to have such great buddies.

But enough about those two, let's get back to me. Yes, Saturday, March 2nd was the World Premier of Dante's View at the Visions Theater in Washington D.C. Despite the cold weather, persistent rain and early showtime, the turnout for the event was underwhelming. Sharing the bill with two bush league short subjects and a boring, self-indulgent documentary didn't help matters. Nevertheless, when Dante hit the screen, the sacred darkened space of the cinema was transformed into a world of bold imagery, hypnotic music, riveting performances and shamanistic storytelling. The lucky few who were there to witness the event left with lives forever changed in ways that they may now only dimly perceive.

One audience member called it "brilliant," while another gushed "it was pretty good."

Strangely, I was completely unmolested by mobs of passionate female film students as we left the theater and headed off through the rain in search of more pitchers of beer. Fortunately, however, I was able to recall an old Adams-Morgan haunt from the days when this same neighborhood was my stomping ground, a place called Millie & Al's, and there we did at last find beer.

I spent the rest of the week checking out some of the competition at the festival, visiting with Dave and his family and digging up some ghosts from a past life that has been all too-well preserved. I saw a couple of short films that really impressed me, including one called Copy Shop that is nominated for an academy award. But for the most part, I felt they had a long way to go to match the blazing intensity of Dante's View.

I also managed to catch a wicked sore throat, possibly having something to do with the cold, rainy weather and pitchers of beer, and spent much of my time wandering the streets in a kind of semiconscious delirium in which the murky past, the fantasized future and the slightly unreal present mingled into one long semi-autobiographical waking dream.

On Thursday night, Dave accompanied me to the awards ceremony, by which point I was so groggy that I thought I was going to pass out during my acceptance speech. Luckily I didn't have to make an acceptance speech, as I wasn't being given any awards. I didn't mind too much though, the short that did win is also nominated for an academy award and there were plenty of other shorts that cost a lot more than mine to produce and didn't win anything either.

I did have a speech prepared, however, and I felt like I deserved something special for writing, producing, directing, shooting, editing and now marketing my very first movie. So, I decided to give myself an award. I picked out a suitable trophy: a five-inch high, gold-plated replica of the Washington Monument, which I am awarding myself in a ceremony held later this week (as soon as it arrives in the mail). Since all the cool awards have nicknames, I have decided to call it "The Golden Dickie" or just "The Dickie" for short.

And now, if I may...

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who worked on the movie, especially Jon, Ivana, Patti, Linda, Mike, Blake and Dimitri. They all did so much more than their credits suggest and this award honors their achievement as much as mine. I'd also like to thank my friends for their support and encouragement, particularly my brothers in the Mariner's Gate who believed in me and taught me how to believe in myself. I'd like to thank my family for their faith and enthusiasm, my sisters for their loyalty and hope and my parents for their trust and patience. Finally, I'd like to thank myself for never giving up even when there seemed to be no reason to continue, and for having a dream and working to make it come true. That's what this award is, a dream come true. And no matter how many other awards or trophies I might receive, the Golden Dickie will always be the first in my heart. Thank-you.
At this point, the band is playing the theme song from Dante's View and a really tall blonde babe with fake boobs is taking me by the arm and leading me off the stage...

I guess I haven't completely gotten over my delirium, but what the hell -- if you can't live a rich and fulfilling fantasy life, what's the point of living in a fantasy world at all?

Most of all, I'd like to thank all of you, the little people -- you know who you are. Each and every one of you deserves a Golden Dickie of your very own.

Did I forget to thank the Academy?

Love,
Hollywood Dick

DANTE'S VIEW at the DCIFF

DANTE'S VIEW had its East Coast Premiere on Saturday March 2, 2002 at Visons Theater in Washington D.C. as part of the DC Independent Film Festival.
Below are copies of the acceptance email from the festival organizers to Richard Eastman, the festival program showing the date and time of the DANTE'S VIEW premiere screening, as well as a schedule and filmmaker's pass.

"Attention Everyone!"

Sometimes I feel like I'm invisible. I can be walking down the street and it seems like if I didn't move out of the way, everyone would just plow right into me. I can go for entire days without having a single conversation with another human being. Whole weeks have gone by without even a message on my answering machine. I wonder if anyone is paying any attention to what I'm doing.

Then, all of a sudden, I get a call from a friend who's trying to put a band together and wants me to drop by their practices and tell him what I think of them. So I hang out with them, and the next thing I know they're asking me to play harmonica on a few songs. Pretty soon, I'm rehearsing with them on a regular basis because we have a gig coming up.

Meanwhile, another friend calls. He's helping his wife write a screenplay and would I mind taking a look at it and maybe offer a few suggestions. So now, on the days when I'm not rehearsing, I'm going over the script and giving feedback over the phone.

Then comes the gig: I'm standing onstage in front of a room full of people, all my friends are there, I'm getting all kinds of complements and attention. I'm definitely being noticed. And, at the next gig they want me to play a solo set. So now I'm rehearsing with the band and practicing my own stuff too. Oh, and the band wants to play one of my songs in their regular set. Which is pretty cool.

Then I get this email, out of the blue, telling me that my short movie Dante's View has been selected as a finalist in the DC Independent Film Festival and is going to be screened on Saturday, March 2nd as part of one of the featured programs. Well, shoot, that's just plain recognition.

And it starts to dawn on me that maybe I'm not completely invisible after all. That there are some people out there who are paying attention, and actually seem to appreciate what I'm doing. My friend Jimmy, who's music video I'm still working on, has gotten me back into playing music again and it's something I really missed. Jon and Ivana, who collaborated with me so wonderfully on Dante's View are involving me in their creative process as they prepare the script for Ivana's next film. Dave Todd has not only offered me a place to stay when I go to DC to attend the premier of Dante's View, but is also doing some advance local PR work for me. Speaking of PR, Beck Lee is helping deliver my movie to the selection committee for the New York/Avignon Film Festival, one of his illustrious clients. Not to be outdone, my sister Susan slipped a copy of the movie to Jeanine Basinger, Wesleyan's preeminent film maven.

Jeanine will be in town Monday evening for the annual reception in her honor at CAA, one of the biggest agencies in town. I am planning to bring my camera and shoot some footage of Ivana in character as 'Christina' the mysterious woman from Dante's View. We are thinking of doing a sequel, possibly based on the Purgatorio, that will focus on Ivana's character. For the past three years. I've been going to this party and feeling like the ultimate outsider, peeking in at the special people in their special world. It will be a real kick to be there as a director, using the party as a backdrop for a scene in my next movie. I wouldn't be surprised if I end up attracting a lot of attention.

I just hope all this attention doesn't get too overwhelming -- the solo gig, the film festival, the big fancy party -- it's like living in a damn fishbowl. I mean can't people just leave me alone? Sometimes I wish I was invisible...

Who am I kidding? I'm loving every minute of it.

Anyone who wants to come see the movie can come to DC and stay at Dave Todd's house. Right Dave?

Thank you all for paying attention.

Love, Hollywood Dick

Annie

I called my niece, Annie, at the University of Vermont on 9/11 to see how she was doing. I was concerned how she would be affected by such an unbelievable tragedy. At a time when she is in the process of determining her own place in the world, to have the world rendered so drastically uncertain and terrible seemed like it might be quite overwhelming. She was shocked, upset and worried just like I was, but she was also absolutely certain about one thing. She had to go to New York and do something. She didn't know what she would do, but she had to go down there and do something. When I asked her why, she said: "I have to help."

Last week Annie stood at the entrance to Firehouse 1010 directly across from the entrance to Ground Zero, looking through the gate at the scene of incomprehensible devastation and loss. She was there to help.

For the past four months, Annie has been organizing an 'Alternative Winter Break' for herself and ten other students. She got in touch with an organization called Ground Zero Food Services and arranged to have her group volunteer as food service workers to feed and comfort the relief crews who continue to sift through the wreckage of the Twin Towers. She then wrangled 11 round-trip plane tickets from a company called Jet Blue and got permission to use the 15th street apartment of a family she used to baby-sit for. She also collected donations for meal money, although most of their meals were taken care of by the food service. That meant they had a little spending money for their off-hours. After all they are college students on winter break.

About a month ago, Annie asked me if I knew anyone in town who might be able to hook her up with some free entertainment, so she could treat her crew to some fun to balance the hard work. In fact I did know somebody like that. I called Beck Lee and gave him the full story and he was instantly on board. He was impressed with Annie's initiative and naturally taken with the cause. Plus, Beck has the connections -- he knows everyone and everything that's going on and usually has a backstage pass. He wasn't sure what he could do, but he was sure he would work something out.

I spoke with Annie a few times during the week she was in New York and it was clear that she was in the midst of a life-changing experience. The work, the people, the memory of what happened, and of course the city itself gave her and her companions an indelible lesson in the tremendous adventure the world has to offer to those who dare to live with passion and courage.

At the end of the week, the group was treated to a four-star French dinner at Chez Josephine, a restaurant owned by the son of Josephine Baker, courtesy of Beck Lee. Annie said it was the best meal she's ever eaten and the owner Jean-Claude was so completely charming they wanted to take him home. It was a fitting reward for their week of service and I was extremely pleased that Beck was able to be a part of Annie's endeavor.

This week, Annie turns 21. I can't imagine a better start on her journey from dreamer to doer than the one she's given herself. The other day I was talking to my sister Cindy about her amazing daughter and we both agreed: When we grow up we want to be just like Annie.

Happy Birthday Annie.

Happy New Year to everyone.

Love, Rich