Change

Around this time of year, everybody starts thinking about change. There's a new year on the horizon, and we all get a fresh start. Everything's going to be different. Out with the old and in with the new. New calendar. New Congress. New Facebook profile. Because new means better. Change is good. Anything different is an improvement on what we already have. Right?

Not always.

Take Congress for example. We "change" Congress every two years. Has it ever improved? Not a bit. Nobody has ever said, "damn, this new Congress is way better than that crappy old Congress we used to have." And they never will. Because change is not inherently good. Sometimes the crappy Congress we have is the best one we can get. And changing it only makes it worse.

As for Facebook, they have a whole army of people working around the clock whose sole objective is to make unnecessary changes to the system. These so-called "improvements," often known as "upgrades" are actually a continuing series of useless annoyances whose only real purpose is to provide the employees of Facebook with a sense of job security. Currently they are pushing a new profile format. Why? Is there something wrong with the current format? I like my profile the way it is. Some people say "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." But at Facebook their motto is, "if it ain't broke, be patient, we'll be screwing it up shortly."

Change.

While I accept the inevitability of change, I tend to resist its implementation. Recently, at work, I was asked to relocate to another building to help out with one of our more popular shows. They were gearing up for production and needed a few extra hands on deck, as it were. Now, some might see such a change of assignment as a welcome break to the hum-drum workaday routine. Not me. Once I get settled into my daily routine, I pretty much like to stick with it. I know exactly how long the commute takes. I have my computer set up just the way I like it. Got my favorite chair. I even have a little niche in the hallway fridge for my unsweetened chocolate soy milk. Now they want me to move?

Of course I agreed. I had no choice, really, but it seemed more civilized to pretend that I did. I decided to look at it as an adventure. As it turned out, the commute to the other building wasn't all that much different, just a few minutes longer. And the people over there were nice and all. They stuck me in an editing bay with some headphones and a laptop and basically left me alone. It was pretty damn cold in there, and the chair was kind of uncomfortable. And I couldn't quite get used to the size of the keyboard on the laptop. But, I decided to make a go of it.

After a few hours, I swapped chairs with one that wasn't being used. Then I scrounged around for a full-sized keyboard. The headphones were kind of digging into my skull, but I had to put up with them. I managed to tough it out for the rest of the night. After all, it was an adventure.

The next day, I was moved to another work station with a better chair and more comfortable headphones. Still a little chilly, but I brought a sweater along just in case. I also found a fridge for my soy milk. It was kind of over-crowded, but it would do. Things were looking up. Had to leave home a few minutes early to account for the slightly longer commute, but I was handling it.

I got moved again the next day, and spent the first half-hour setting up my workspace so it was just right. Put a box under the laptop to raise the monitor to eye-level. Switched chairs with one from an empty conference room. Got hold of a new keyboard from the guy in IT. And I was now working in an editing bay that was heated to actual room temperature. There was an editor in there with me who was putting together bits and pieces of video from a vast array of clips for a segment in one of the upcoming shows. I occasionally interrupted him and asked him questions about his process. It was pretty fascinating. I was getting a little bonus OJT out of the deal. This new assignment was turning out all right after all.

By the end of the week, I had settled into my new routine quite nicely. I was making friends with the editor and learning a lot about the nuts and bolts of storytelling from his perspective. I'd learned my way around the building and even found another fridge that had plenty of room for my soy milk and other snack items. I was just beginning to feel at home there. And that's when they told me my assignment was done and I would be moving back to the main building. I was glad to be going back, but I had to admit I had kind of been enjoying my little adventure. Especially now that it was over.

The following weekend, I did a major rewrite of a screenplay I've been working on for several years. They say all good writing is rewriting, but rewriting can be a real pain in the ass. I'd been living with this story for so long, it was hard for me to imagine it any other way. But I'd gotten some pretty clear notes that what I had wasn't working and I needed to make some serious changes. I'd been putting off the rewrite for months and now the deadline was near. I was backed into a corner and the clock was ticking. I dug through the loose pile of notecards and scraps of paper where I'd scribbled some random ideas, and started piecing them together bit by bit. Much like my editor friend had done with his array of video clips. Fortunately, I was working at home, where the chair is comfortable, the monitor is just the right height, and the fridge is stocked with unsweetened chocolate soy milk. In the end, the rewrite turned out pretty damn good. Much better than I'd expected. Much better than the original.

So I guess not all change is bad. Sometimes change can even be fun.

But I'm still not switching to the new Facebook profile.

Giving Thanks

"Thank You (Falettinme Be Mice Elf Agin)"

So I'm heading into work the other day and I pass by the boss's Range Rover -- when I say "boss" I mean our CEO, the guy who founded the company -- and I wondered if anybody ever thanks him. Not just the regular kind of "thanks" for holding the door open or passing the salt, but a more all-encompassing "thanks" for creating a successful company, providing people with jobs, and generally improving the economy. Obviously he didn't do it all out of the goodness of his heart; he's made a pile of money for himself. But, without his hard work and marketable ideas, I might not have a job right now. And that would suck.

So, thanks, dude.

While I'm at it, I should thank the woman who hired me for the job, too. She is my actual "boss-boss," and she came through for me when I really needed it. Again, she wasn't acting completely out of charity, she had a position to fill and needed someone she could rely on. She could very easily have hired someone else, but she knew I needed the gig and kept me in mind until something turned up. She also let me work around my screenwriting schedule, which is something I very much need to stay committed to.

So to her, I also say: "Thanks."

Then there's the guy who recommended me for the job in the first place. True, I dropped a few hints here and there. Some would say begged and pleaded. He made sure the boss-lady knew I was still interested and available and helped me get my foot in the door. He's still got my back now that I'm on the inside, keeping me in the loop with the producers I'm hoping to work with.

Yeah -- thanks, man.

And I know I've mentioned it before, but it bears repeating: I really appreciate my screenwriting group. This summer they helped me work through a rewrite of one of my scripts that has enabled me to revive some interest in it. And it's not just the writers in the group, but the actors too. They helped me see things that I didn't know were there, and some things that weren't there but needed to be. It was a huge help.

Thanks, guys.

I have, and have had, some pretty cool co-workers who allow me to bitch and moan when I feel the need to vent. Of course, I do the same for them. Most jobs seem to be like that -- people help each other through the rough spots by simply nodding and understanding, or sometimes chiming in or making a joke. It seems like a small thing, but without such commiserators, most of us would not last more than a few weeks at our jobs. Some of these office-buddies have remained my pals, long after we are no longer co-workers. And they still let me bitch and moan when I need to.

Thanks.

Old friends can be pretty cool, too. Sometimes, nobody but old friend can fix a bout of bad craziness with a simple reminder of where you came from or a well-aimed reality check. It's hard sometimes to stay in touch with your old friends as the years fly by. But a short phone call or even a funny Facebook post from an old friend can really bring you back home.

Many thanks.

Nobody, however, can bring you back home like your family. My sisters, who are so different, both continue give me insights and perspective that help keep me grounded and at the same time open my mind to possibilities and potential. They also show me examples of strength and wisdom that make me proud to know them. My brothers-in-law provide some needed guy-energy to the mix, because no matter how awesome my sisters are, it's still nice to know there's a man around to lift heavy objects and say things that are really obvious. My parents, meanwhile, offer unfailing support as well as a constant source of inspiration. They encourage me to pursue my dreams while reminding me of the little things that matter most. And they say some really funny shit.

I can't thank them enough.

My niece and nephews totally honor me by making me feel like I am still "cool" enough to hang with them. They also fill me with hope, just knowing there are such good people out there to face the weirdness that undoubtedly lies ahead. My niece's husband adds a wonderful new wing to our little family and enjoys the eminent distinction of being good enough for my niece.

Thanks, kids.

The more I think about it, the more people there are to thank. I'm not sure I can ever thank them all. If I ever gave an Oscar speech, I'd be up there for days. Just this week, a friend invited me over to share Thanksgiving dinner. Same thing happened last year, and the year before. I know I said "thank you," but somehow that just doesn't seem to be enough.

Or maybe it is. As long as you really mean it.

Uh-oh, they're playing the exit music, and I just know I'm forgetting someone...

I'll try again next year.

Thank you.

Vanity

You're so vain... you probably think this blog is about you.

Vanity often gets a bum rap. It is even considered one of the Seven Deadly Sins. Which is pretty bad. But, when you think about it, without Vanity, what would become of civilization, as we know it? Without Vanity, would there be any world leaders? Doubtful. You don't get to be a world leader without thinking that you are pretty special -- and convincing others to think so, too. From Julius Caesar to Naploeon Bonaparte, Attila the Hun to Jabba the Hut, Mahatma Ghandi to Glenn Beck, the great leaders in history all have one thing in common: Vanity.

The same is true for science and the arts. Did Pythagoras come up with his famous theorem purely for the love of math? Of course not. He wanted to have something really awesome named after him. Same goes for Charles Darwin, Albert Einstein and Louis Pasteur. Pasteurization, by the way, is a confusing term. I mean, don't all cows come from pastures? So isn't all milk, in a sense 'pasture-ized'? I'm not saying it's deliberately misleading -- I'm just saying Louis didn't think that one through.

As for the art world, surely every great work of art is, by nature, an act of Vanity. Tell me you don't have to have some pretty big stones to paint a picture of God on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Or write a poem about your journey through the nine circles of Hell. Or make a 3-D movie about a planet filled with 10-foot-tall, blue-skinned Rastafarians who ride on flying dragons?

Serious Vanity.

Science teaches us that Vanity is a good thing. According to the Law of Attraction, if we imagine ourselves desirable, the Universe will reward us with high-cheekbones and positive cash-flow. Whereas, if we succumb to the victimizing philosophy of Humility, the Universe will in turn afflict us with bad hair and a lack of fashion sense. This is why good people are always pretty and bad people are ugly. It is, in fact, why movie stars are better than regular people.

True, there are many who believe that Humility is the proper path. Most often, though, you will find that these people are merely losers who need an excuse for their inability to play sports or get a date to the prom. I myself have fallen into the morass of abject Humility, believing that I were no better than anyone else, deserving only of my 'fair share,' willing to sacrifice my own comfort and pleasure for the so-called Greater Good. I wandered through the desert of self-denial for years, thinking that, by living simply and not seeking attention or reward, I was somehow leading a life of Virtue.

But what is Virtue? Is it not a Virtue to be loved and admired? Is it not a Virtue to be successful and happy? Is it not a Virtue to be awesome? And did my life of pitiful mediocrity provide me with any of these things?

Of course not.

So that is why I have come to embrace Vanity and all it has to offer. And not just to embrace Vanity, but to celebrate it as well. To paraphrase one of the great fictional heroes of our time:

The point is, ladies and gentleman, that Vanity--for lack of a better word--is good. Vanity is right. Vanity works. Vanity clarifies, cuts through and captures the essence of the evolutionary spirit. Vanity, in all of its forms--has marked the upward surge of mankind. And Vanity--you mark my words--will not only save Teldar Paper, but that other malfunctioning corporation called the USA.

I know that last part doesn't make any sense out of context, but it sounds cool.

As way to kick off my newfound commitment to Vanity, I am organizing the Rally To Restore Vanity, to be held on Tuesday, November 2nd, 2010. On that day, over a dozen people will flock to Hollywood to take part in a day-long program of festivities which is guaranteed to be literally fantastic.
I realize now that November 2nd also happens to be Election Day. But, trust me, when I originally chose the date, I really had no idea of its cultural or historical importance. I was being guided by my Inner Voice, on whose counsel I base all of my most important life choices. When I learned of the significance of the date, I realized that it was truly an inspired coincidence -- if indeed a coincidence it was! For what better occasion to celebrate Vanity than on the day of one of our biggest national popularity contests.

Now, at this point you may be thinking: 'But dude, how can I make Vanity work for me?' And herein lies the sheer beauty of Vanity, because, when it comes right down to it, I really don't care about you.

Divine Comedy

The Sage who provokes laughter is more valuable than a well.

What is comedy? Essentially, comedy is what's "funny." So, what's funny? In the movie The Sunshine Boys, a retired vaudevillian named Willy, played by Walter Matthau, has this to say about what's funny:

Alka Seltzer is funny... Words with "k" in them are funny... Cupcake is funny. Tomato is not funny. Cookie is funny. Cucumber is funny. Car keys. Cleveland... Cleveland is funny. Maryland is not funny. Then, there's chicken. Chicken is funny.

Some things, however, can be funny to some people, but to others... not so much. For example, many people believe that Adam Sandler is funny.

But he isn't.

A friend of mine used to say that he could tell whether someone was smart if they laughed at his jokes. I myself have always used comedy as a way of unfairly judging people. I like making people laugh, and I like being around people who are funny. If someone can make me laugh, I usually like them. If they get my jokes, I love them.

I once dated a woman who wanted to be a stand-up comic. We met at a seminar for comedy writers and she seemed funny. By which I mean she laughed at my jokes. After we'd been dating for a few weeks, she invited me to come see her perform at a comedy club. I sat at the front table to provide moral support. She came out to do her set and...

Not funny!

Don't get me wrong, I laughed loud and hard. But I was totally faking it. (Yes, men can fake it, too.) Afterwards, I told her she was great, but deep down inside, I knew that our relationship was doomed. I tried to overlook it and focus on her other fine qualities (she worked at a bar and gave me free drinks) but it was no use. Seeing her onstage not being funny was too much to overcome. Perhaps it would have been different if she didn't think she was funny.

But she did. And she wasn't.

I figured I'd give stand-up comedy a try. It didn't look that hard. But the joke was on me -- turns out it was both awesomely terrifying and immensely satisfying. Mostly terrifying. The satisfying part is that you get to find out first hand if your jokes are funny. Fortunately for me, my jokes got laughs. The gut-wrenching, mind-numbing, paralyzing fear was bad enough. But to stand up there and have nobody laugh would have been sheer torture.

I decided I was better suited to writing. Less stressful. So, a friend and I co-wrote a play called Leading The Blind, about a couple who meet at their friends' wedding and end up getting married -- meanwhile their married friends are in the midst of a divorce and trying to talk them out of it. We held a staged reading of the play and I found that I much preferred anonymously sitting in the audience while trained professionals did all of the heavy lifting. Writing for actors was definitely the way to go.

Not long after that, I began writing screenplays. Only problem is, unless some miracle occurs and your screenplay gets made into a movie, you don't get to see how it plays in front of an audience. Closest I could get was some screenwriting software that "reads" your script out loud using an electronically programmed voice that sounds like Stephen Hawking on Quaaludes. It's funny, but not in a good way.

The first five screenplays I churned out were comedies. Basically, they are all about slightly geeky guys who get mixed up in dangerous situations and wind up meeting beautiful women who want to have sex with them. I thought I had invented my own genre, but it turns out that the genre already exists. It's called: Every Unsold Comedy Script Ever Written. I sent them around and got some good feedback here and there. But unless I could be in the room with the people who were reading my scripts and actually see if and when they were laughing, I couldn't really tell if my jokes were working. And the idea of me sitting there watching them read my script tended to turn most people off.

But now, after years of writing for an audience of one, I belong to a writing group that holds weekly script readings. There's no better indicator than the sound of a roomful of people laughing (or not laughing) to tell you if your script is funny. Or not. Just last week, I brought in one of my old comedy scripts for a reading. The actors did a fine job, as always, but after a somewhat subdued reading, several people asked me if it was, in fact, a comedy.

Awkward pause...

At least now I know where I stand. Time to go back and "punch it up," as we say in the biz. I got some good notes from my fellow writers to help guide me. Of course, you can't really tell someone how to be funny. I'll just have to go with my gut.

And put in a bunch of words with "k" in them.

In Your Dreams

We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.

I'm a dreamer. I do it all the time. Usually when I'm asleep, but not always. Sometimes I get so caught up in my dreams that I have trouble separating them from reality. Every now and then, I wake up with a dream still fresh in my mind that's so vivid, it feels more "real" than my actual life. Other times, I'll remember something so clearly that I can't tell if it really happened or if I dreamed it. Of course, there are those who say that what we think of as "reality" is actually just an illusion. And someday we may "wake up" and realize it was all just a dream.

Unless, of course, we are really "waking up" into another dream.

Oftentimes I'll be sound asleep and dream that I wake up and try to remember what I was dreaming about. I keep a notepad next to my bed to write down some of the brilliant ideas that come to me in my dreams. So, I get into this crazy loop where I have a really cool dream, then I dream that I "wake up" and write down what the first dream was about. And, even though somewhere in the back of my mind I know that I am actually asleep, I manage to convince myself that if I "write down" the dream within the dream, I will remember it when I really do wake up.

But that never works.

Still, I have come up with some good ideas in my dreams. A lot of my dreams are just like movies. I've always wished I had some way to record them so I could watch them later. I guess that's why I like to write screenplays. I keep hoping that one of these days I will get to see one of my "dreams" up on the big screen. I actually had a dream once that I went to the premier of one of my movies. That was pretty cool. It was like a dream come true.

Except that it was only a dream.

When I was researching my first screenplay, Merlin, I read a bunch of books on magic. I learned that magic is essentially the act of taking a thought and making it real. That's not all that different from writing, really. Or just about any other form of creation, for that matter. Later, when I was writing Merlin, I had several weird experiences where I felt like some of the things I was conjuring up in my head were manifesting themselves in my life. I wasn't sure if it was really happening or if it was just coincidence, but it was pretty intense.

I thought the story of someone whose dreams started coming true would be a good idea for a screenplay. I wrote an outline about a guy who keeps having dreams about a beautiful, dark-haired girl. Then, one day, he sees her out on the street. He can't believe it. He tries to follow her, but loses her in the crowd. That night he dreams that she is in danger, and becomes obsessed with finding her and rescuing her.

Over the course of several rewrites, the story changed a bit. Eventually it turned into the tale of a young lawyer who dreams about being James Bond, and ends up in the middle of a totally Bond-like adventure in his real life. The girl changed, too. She went from a dark-haired mystery girl to a kick-ass blonde. I kept the original title though. I called it, In Your Dreams.

I quite enjoyed doing the research for In Your Dreams, which basically involved re-reading every Bond novel, and re-watching every Bond movie. I zeroed in on The Spy Who Loved Me as a good template for my story. It is the only Bond novel which is not told from James Bond's perspective, but instead from that of a young woman whom James Bond ends up rescuing. I decided to do a gender-switch with the young lawyer in the role of the rescuee and the kick-ass blonde became, who else? Jane Bond. I finished the script and posted the synopsis on a couple of screenplay websites, hoping to attract a flurry of attention.

The flurry never did materialize, although I did get an email from England from a young music-video director named Raj, who really liked the idea. I sent him the script and he loved it. We traded some emails back and forth for a while, discussing various projects and ideas. When Raj came to Hollywood for a visit, I brought him over to legendary guitar wizard Will Ray's house for a very untraditional Thanksgiving dinner. Raj and I have continued to stay in touch. He has since moved to Los Angeles and is currently in the process of launching his career as a feature film director.

Meanwhile, a few years went by. I had nearly forgotten about posting In Your Dreams on those screenplay websites, when I got a random email from a producer in Texas who said he was very interested. He loved the James Bond angle and wanted to try casting all of the old ex-Bonds in key roles. I thought that was a brilliant idea. We spent several months exchanging emails about the story, during which time it went through further revisions. He contributed some really good ideas, and I pretty much used them all. But then, as so often happens, he decided not to pursue the project. He was pretty cool about it, letting me know that I was welcome to go ahead use his ideas. (I was going to do that anyway, but it was a nice gesture.)

After that, I put In Your Dreams back up on the shelf and went on to my next project.

Then, about a week ago, I went to see Inception. And it was awesome. Not only is Inception a very cool movie about the thin line between dreams and reality, but it also has some kick-ass Bond-like action sequences. Especially in the third act, which is practically a remake of the third act of On Her Majesty's Secret Service. (Starring George Lazenby, by the way, who would be perfect as the villain in In Your Dreams.)

Once again, In Your Dreams has moved to the forefront of my thoughts. It's been floating around my subconscious for years, developing a kind of mythical status. At this point it's like a half-remembered dream that I had years ago. It seemed so real at the time -- but did it really happen? Some of the images are so clear in my mind, it's as though I truly remember seeing them. And, in a way, I guess I did see them, up there on the big screen inside my head. Where all of my dreams come true. Only this time, I'm pretty sure I woke up and wrote it all down.

Or did I just dream that, too?

The Park

The Long Meadow

One of the many writing projects currently cluttering my mind, and my apartment, is the rewrite of my first novel, about my journey from Louisville to San Francisco and back again during a semester off from college. The other day I was looking at Chapter 4, in which I focus on Lake Merritt. I lived in a tiny apartment in Oakland, less than a block from Lake Merritt, and spent much of my free time there, roaming the shores, or simply staring at the water. It provided respite from the closed-in city, escape from worries and woes, a haven of peace in a world of chaos.

All my life I have taken refuge in parks -- from small city parks jammed between bustling boulevards to vast tracts of wilderness miles from civilization. Wherever I've lived, I have always sought out such places for inspiration and regeneration. I've come to rely on them, but in a way also to take them for granted. What would a world be like without parks? I couldn't imagine it.

When I was growing up, we had a neighborhood park at the end of our street that featured a rustic wooden bridge, tennis courts, a swimming pool and horse stables. For half the year, after school, my friends and I would disappear into the woods behind the park, having adventures and making discoveries. We wandered the bridle trails like exploring pioneers, clambered around Little Goose Creek searching for crawdads and newts, climbed trees and built forts. In the summer we spent hours and hours at the pool, splashing, racing, diving, jumping -- having a blast. It was always just "The Park" to us, but it was just about the best place on earth.

When I began running cross-country, however, I discovered another favorite park. Well, two parks actually, Seneca Park and Cherokee Park. We held our cross-country meets in Seneca Park, with its wide, flat, landscaped expanses of softball fields and tennis courts. But for workouts, we favored the more rugged and rolling bridle trails of the adjacent Cherokee Park. Running swiftly through the trees like ancient warriors on the trail of a mighty buck. Once I discovered trail running, I never wanted to run on streets again.

On a trip to Connecticut my junior year of high school, my Dad and I visited two college campuses. The first one was Yale, in the center of downtown New Haven. Although I had always fantasized about going to Yale, the gritty, urban campus really turned me off. Sure there were plenty of quads & courtyards offering shelter from the city streets, but the overall feel of the place left me cold. Then we went up to Middletown. Right in the middle of the Wesleyan campus is an open greenspace with a big grassy hill, a running track and playing fields: a park. I thought, 'yep, I could live here.' And that pretty much made the decision.

During my hiatus from Wesleyan, living in Oakland, I needed the proximity of Lake Merritt to feel at home in the big, scary city. And when I wasn't hanging out at the lake, I was running the trails of Strawberry Canyon winding through the hills above Berkeley. And then there was Golden Gate Park in San Francisco, a great place to just get lost for hours at time.

After college, I drove out to San Diego and found an apartment just a few blocks from the ocean, in Pacific Beach. There is almost no place like the beach for restoring one's soul. Walking along the water's edge, swimming in the surf or simply contemplating the immensity of the Pacific. No matter what was bugging you, the beach would always be there to remind you that the tide comes in and the tide goes out. Sometimes there are a lot of waves, sometimes there are none. Every night the sun goes down like a glorious god relinquishing his throne. And every day is new.

Back in Connecticut, I worked for a while at Hammonasset Beach State Park, building picnic tables, lifeguard stands and lengths of boardwalk, and occasionally shoring up the fenceline that ran along the dunes. When I wasn't working at the beach, I hung out at my parents' house, situated on the banks of a small tidal river directly across from the Guilford Salt Meadow Sanctuary -- so basically their backyard was an incredibly cool Audubon bird sanctuary.

Eventually, I drifted down to Washington DC where I lived in a row house right on the edge of beautiful Rock Creek Park. We actually lived just opposite the monkey house in the National Zoo, and in the early morning I could hear the macaques crooning and wailing to one another. Sometimes I would respond, blowing long sad notes on my harmonica. I think the macaques assumed I was just another monkey.

Rock Creek Park is a true national treasure, comprising some 2000 acres, including miles and miles of trails. I would sometimes cut through the zoo on my way to the subway in the morning or find any excuse to use Rock Creek Parkway if I needed to drive somewhere. But I spent most of my time on the trails. There are trails everywhere in Rock Creek Park. I would pride myself on being able to get way across town, from Cleveland Park to Georgetown, without once setting foot on pavement.

When I moved to Brooklyn, I felt like I was really in deep. Yeah, I'd lived in big cities before. Oakland is a big city, but we lived on the edge of a lake, and I spent most of my time working at a burger joint in Berkeley. As for DC, it's pretty tame as big cities go -- lots of trees and wide avenues and low buildings. Kind of like a super-sized college campus. Brooklyn, however, is almost unrelentingly urban. Block after block of nothing but concrete, asphalt and brownstone. Cars, buses and taxis moving nonstop. People everywhere. And the noise! Never a moment's peace. It was almost too much for a Louisville boy to bear.

Fortunately, I lived on the ground floor of a brownstone that had its own private backyard garden. Well, not so much a garden as a patch of ground filled with weeds and junk. I set about restoring my garden to a more pastoral state. I hacked down the weeds, planted grass, cultivated wildflowers. I put up a hammock and even had a kiddie-sized wading pool in the summer. It was pretty nice. A great place to get away from the intensity of the street. But it had its limitations. It was, after all surrounded by other buildings and other backyard gardens filled with many, many other people.

So, I discovered Prospect Park. Designed by Fredrick Law Olmsted who designed Central Park (as well as Cherokee and Seneca Parks), Prospect Park is perhaps the ultimate example of creating a pastoral environment in the midst of an urban one. The 90-acre Long Meadow is an oasis of grass in a concrete jungle, surrounded by berms and trees that serve to block out the sights and sounds of the city. Standing in the center of Long Meadow, you really can forget you are in the middle of one of the most densely populated places in the country.

I spent long days in Prospect Park exploring its nearly 600 acres, including a 60-acre lake, finding something new and interesting on almost every occasion. In the fall, Prospect Park's maple trees had some of the most vibrant orange, red and yellow leaves I'd ever seen. Who needs Vermont? In the winter, the park became a wonderland with skaters and sledders and cross-country skiers. One spring I sat every weekend under a favorite shade tree writing my second screenplay. And in the summer Long Meadow became a grassy beach filled with sun-bathers.

These days, I divide my time between three or four different parks, depending on the purpose. When I just need to sit under shady tree, I have Kings Road Park, just a few blocks away. For short hikes, I can go to the popular Runyon Canyon Park -- the 'in' place for Hollywood hikers. If I want more privacy, I head over to a rustic little gem called Franklin Canyon Park, nestled right in the heart of Beverly Hills. For swimming I have the West Hollywood Park, which is like my second home. As far as longer hikes, there are numerous places to choose from in LA County alone, including the amazing Topanga State Park, which at 11,000 acres is the largest state park within city limits.

I guess to me, parks represent the best intentions of a society -- the desire to preserve that which is truly valuable and the recognition that we all need to share this world somehow. It's nice to have your own little slice of heaven, shielded from the teeming masses and whatnot. I hope to have my own someday. But it's also good to know that there are still some places that everyone can enjoy. Places where kids can play and explore, where athletes can compete, where struggling writers can daydream. Who knows, maybe someday one of those kids will discover a new form of energy, or one of those athletes will inspire a whole generation, or that writer will write a book that changes the world?

And then he will have a park named after him.

Conservatism

Wildness is a necessity.

I've never really thought of myself as a Conservative. I don't really think of myself as a Liberal either, although I suppose I do go along with what President Kennedy said on the subject:

If by a "Liberal" they mean someone who looks ahead and not behind, someone who welcomes new ideas without rigid reactions, someone who cares about the welfare of the people — their health, their housing, their schools, their jobs, their civil rights, and their civil liberties — someone who believes we can break through the stalemate and suspicions that grip us in our policies abroad, if that is what they mean by a "Liberal," then I'm proud to say I'm a "Liberal."

The problem with such labels is they allow people to be dismissive of other opinions. If I'm a Liberal, then I must disagree with Conservatives, and vice versa. There seems to be a lot of that going around lately. We recently had a primary election here in California, and as a registered "Non-Partisan," I was given the choice of voting as either a Republican or a Democrat. Right or Left. Conservative or Liberal. One or the Other.

It wasn't a hard choice. But it did underscore the weird dichotomy that exists in politics, and in our culture in general. I guess I just don't get conservatism as a philosophy. Sure, I understand that people who have power want to keep things the way they are. And I can see how people who work hard don't want to give their money away to people they don't like. But as a way of life, it seems like conservatism is more about denying possibility than maintaining tradition. These days it seems like the so-called "conservatives" are pretty much opposed to any idea that isn't in their playbook. If they haven't thought of it already, it can't be good. Kind of like Hollywood. More sequels, remakes and franchises -- but please, nothing original. Nothing new. Nothing different.

But there is at least one area in which I do appreciate conservatism. When it comes to protecting and maintaining our natural resources, I think conservatism is the way to go. Conservatism, that is, in its original sense, meaning "preservationism." But this is where we run into trouble. Because many Conservatives seem more intent on preserving the Big Oil Monopoly than they do the environment. They seem more concerned with denying Global Warming than with accepting responsibility for air pollution. We can't afford to keep things "the way they are" when that way leads to calamity.

I first became aware of environmental conservatism in the Boy Scouts. My troop used to hold "paper drives" to raise money. We'd arrange to have a big semi-trailer parked in the church parking lot, and people would come by and drop off stacks of old newspapers and magazines to be recycled. This was a revelation. Paper can be recycled -- who knew? And the best part was that, invariably, some guy would dump off a pile of old Playboy magazines he'd been keeping in his attic, and we'd wind up sitting in the back of the trailer all day looking at pictures of naked women.

Recycling was awesome.

One particularly beautiful summer morning, on Keep America Beautiful Day, our troop set out hiking alongside the state highway that ran past my neighborhood, picking up litter that people had thrown out of their car windows. And there was a lot of it. Nationwide, the Scouts collected over a million tons of litter that day. I'd learned from my camping experiences that we should always leave the campsite better than we found it. I began to think that maybe that rule should apply everywhere.

In high school, I got involved with a student group called the Ecology Club. We organized a trip to Frankfort, our state capital, to join a march protesting the building of a dam that would obliterate a pristine wilderness area known as The Red River Gorge. My Dad and I had gone camping and hiking there, and I thought it was about the most beautiful place on earth. I couldn't imagine losing it forever. Eventually, thanks to a declaration signed by President Clinton, the Gorge was placed under federal protection.

Conservatism.

Those early experiences had a big impact. And the philosophy of being conservative with resources, of not being wasteful, of using only what you need and leaving the world better than you found it, has stayed with me. These days, however, instead of protest marches, I channel my energy towards things like recycling my junk mail and carrying a reusable grocery bag when I walk to the market. What my old high school buddy Hank calls 'microactivism'.

But it still makes me mad when I walk by a store on Rodeo Drive on a hot day and feel the cold blast of air escaping from the open door. Or go to the park and see the parking lot jammed with gas-guzzling SUVs. I feel like I'm the only one who is trying to conserve. Everyone else seems perfectly happy sucking up oil and spewing out waste, driving around in monster Humvees while all the trees are mowed down and the seas are poisoned.

Which brings us to BP. Some Conservatives would suggest that 'over-regulating' the oil industry interferes with the Free Market. They recommend more drilling in more places instead of, say, electric cars and emission caps. But I say that a true conservative would be in favor of preserving the sanctity of God's creation, not spoiling it. I say that a true conservative would welcome the reduction of industrial waste rather than increasing it. I say that true conservatives would want to leave the world a better place than they found it, out of respect and gratitude and a sense of responsibility. You know, Traditional Values.

So, if that is what they mean by "Conservative," then I'm proud to say I'm a "Conservative."

Factotum

Hollywood is the one place in the world where you can die of encouragement.

I started a new job not long ago, and by "new" I mean that I am actually doing a job that I have never done before. For years, I have worked as a paralegal, in various law firms in three different cities. But, when I quit my last job, I vowed to myself that I would never work as a paralegal again. Not that being a paralegal is such a terrible thing. The pay is good. There are often plenty of intelligent people around to talk to -- often including the lawyers. And for the most part it is a job I could pretty much count on getting.

And that was the problem.

Because I had so much experience as a paralegal, and because the pay was good, and because there always seemed to be a need for paralegals, I began to believe that it was the only job I could apply for. The only job I was qualified for. The only job, period.

Except that I hated being a paralegal. Again, not that there's anything wrong with being a paralegal. Well actually there is -- it is essentially a 'go nowhere' position. You can't advance through the ranks of paralegaldom and eventually become a lawyer. Most people become paralegals for a year or two before going on to law school -- or not going on to law school, once they have seen what horrors await them. Some, however, stick it out and become 'career' paralegals, and many end up doing very well. But I felt that being a paralegal was sucking the life out of me little by little, and I had to get out.

So I did.

You know how they say "leap and a net will appear?" Well, I leaped -- or is it leapt? Anyway, I jumped. But, here's the thing -- they don't say when the net will appear. Kind of a big loophole. Oh sure, I had a master plan: I was going to sell a screenplay and make tons of money. And in fact, a couple of months after I quit my job, I had a meeting with an actual Movie Producer who told me how much he loved my script and that he wanted to work with me. It was like one of those signs from the Universe that people are always talking about. Serious encouragement. You made the right choice. Keep at it.

Cool.

So I waited all summer to hear back from the Movie Producer who loved my script. Then, I waited through fall and winter. It's been three years since that meeting, and he still hasn't gotten back to me. And there have been numerous other such encounters, many of them initially encouraging, but most of them essentially bullshit. As Dorothy Parker once said, "Hollywood is the one place in the world where you can die of encouragement."

So I began to think that I might actually have to get another job. But, that meant going back on my vow. That meant being a paralegal again. And that felt like death.

I tried applying for non-paralegal jobs, but the problem with getting a job is, they only want to hire someone who has already done that exact job for at least two years already. So how does anyone ever get a new job? The other problem with applying for jobs is my resume. I basically have two things on my resume: Paralegal and Writer/Editor. I worked in publishing for a short time when I was in New York and did some free-lance work as a writer here and there. But that was a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away.

I've had lots of other jobs, too. But they don't make it onto my resume: Dishwasher, Movie Theater Usher, Busboy, Short Order Cook, Ice Cream Truck Driver, Construction Worker, Office Manager, State Park Work Crew, Swimming Pool Tech... And some I can't remember.

Lately though, the choices seem to be getting narrower and narrower. I guess because I've always taken jobs as a sideline to my real pursuit, which was to be a writer, I've never really had what one might call a "career." And so I seem to be stuck with the same stopgap job that I accidentally fell into when I moved to Washington DC one year and was told I could easily find work as a paralegal.

But then, one day, the phone rang. It was a woman who works at a production company that makes reality TV shows. I met her through my friend Jimmy. She hired him about a year ago when his lucrative job in commercial real estate suddenly disappeared. He told me how much he loved the new job, so I said that if they are looking for anyone else, tell them I am available. When I didn't hear back after a few months, I kind of forgot about it. But then, out of the blue, here she was calling me up and offering me a job. The net finally appeared!

And I took it.

The funny thing is, the actual work I do isn't really that different from some of the work I did as a paralegal. I'm using many of the same skills and performing similar tasks. But there is one big difference: I actually enjoy it. For all those years I had been working at a job that had nothing to do with anything I care about. Now I am involved in something that fascinates me. Everything I've learned about arcane things like story beats and character arcs has become a valuable part of my resume. The time I spent teaching myself how to produce, direct, shoot and edit my short movie is now on-the-job training. All the books I've read, all the seminars and classes I attended, all those hours sitting alone at home working out plot points and creating storyboards -- they've all become applicable experience.

Plus, all of the skills and techniques I acquired while working in law firms and publishing and construction and even driving an ice cream truck have contributed to my overall understanding of what it takes to get the job done and see it through. Nothing is wasted. All knowledge is transferable.

But, best of all, I am finally at a job where there is somewhere to go. I don't have to remain in my present position forever. Who knows, maybe I could even become a TV producer.

Of course, I've been through this before. When I worked in publishing, I thought I had found my dream job, only to have it rudely taken away from me. But, for now, I am just happy to be working at something that feels right. Not just a sideline or a stopgap, but something I could do for real.

Or, at least until I sell a screenplay.

Merlin

You can't connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards.

My Dad sent me an email the other day that contained a link to a speech given by Steve Jobs to the 2005 graduating class of Stanford University. In it, Jobs relates three stories from his life, each of which seemed like a major setback at the time, but which eventually led him to bigger and better things. One of the stories was about getting fired from Apple, the company he started in his parent's garage when he was a 20-year-old college drop-out. It was devastating for him, but it also led him to one of the most creative periods in his life.

It reminded me of the time I got fired. Of course, the company I got fired from was not one that I had started, nevertheless the experience was a major blow. I was working in publishing as a managing editor at a small boutique firm in the Chelsea district of Manhattan. It was as close as I'd ever gotten to a 'dream job' -- basically being paid to be a writer, or more accurately, to rewrite other writers. I was working in a creative field with other creative people. No more temping in law firms for me! I was beginning an actual career. Like a real adult.

Or so I thought.

When the three book series I'd been working on was finished -- on time and under budget thanks to my tireless efforts -- my usefulness at the small company came to an end. Several lame explanations were offered for my dismissal, but the plain truth was they didn't want to keep paying me what I was worth when they could easily find some young kid to do the job at half the pay. Which they did.

So I was out on my ass. And the economy was bad. I reluctantly reapplied to the temp agencies, but they had diddley. I tried to shop one of my book ideas, a parody of the Twelve-Step Program called The Twelve Shleps, but was told that Twelve-Steppers wouldn't find it funny.

I was unemployed and out of ideas. I had too much time on my hands and nothing to do. I spent long days exploring New York City from top to bottom -- from The Cloisters to Coney Island -- discovering whole new worlds in hidden places. I walked all over Brooklyn and spent hours in Prospect Park, the Botanic Garden, and the Brooklyn Public Library. It was actually a pretty amazing time. I came to love New York more than ever and really feel at home there.

Meanwhile, I had a roommate who was working in the movie business and would bring home screenplays from whatever movie he was working on. I picked one up one day and read it in one sitting. And from that moment I was hooked. I'd been interested in movies all my life, but it wasn't till then that I realized that all I needed to make a movie was pen and paper. Well, not a pen, actually, a computer. And I didn't really need the paper right away. What I needed was an idea.

I thought about all of my favorite stories growing up: James Bond, Robin Hood, Sherlock Holmes, King Arthur... I loved the story of Arthur and Merlin most of all. My high-school girlfriend had given me a copy of The Once and Future King and it had always held special meaning for me. And the Disney cartoon The Sword in the Stone had long been a favorite. Employing one of the screenwriter's most valuable tools, I began thinking "what if..." What if Merlin were to show up in modern day New York? My New York. What would he think? How would he react? How would New York react to him? One thing I knew -- it would definitely be a comedy.

I began by doing tons and tons of research. I read everything ever written about Merlin and King Arthur, from Geoffrey of Monmouth to Tennyson to the excellent series by Norma Lorre Goodrich. I prowled the Brooklyn Library and the New York Public Library for information on dragons, magic, Celtic symbolism, ley lines, chivalry, Avalon, and dozens of other topics. I couldn't get enough. The more I learned the more I wanted to learn. I had taken to heart the words spoken by Merlin to Arthur in The Once and Future King: "Learn why the world wags and what wags it."

All the while, I continued to explore New York, the city of never-ending discoveries. I went to a renaissance fair at Fort Tryon Park to see a mock joust and witnessed a Merlin figure dressed in a purple robe practicing tai chi with a beautiful polished wooden sword. I came upon a Wiccan circle in the middle of Prospect Park, celebrating the pagan holiday of Ostara. I wandered through Central Park and beheld a vision of the Grail Castle, a winged dragon hovering over its entrance.

I became fascinated with Stonehenge and the concept of ley lines, imagining that these magical energy pathways that ran through the earth's surface were somehow connected both to Merlin and the dragons -- and that Stonehenge was the vortex of their power. Then one day, while investigating Celtic symbols, I found a drawing depicting a dragon beneath the surface of Stonehenge, just as I had imagined. I was blown away -- this idea I thought I had conjured up on my own was right there in front of me in black and white. I called the person who created the graphic and explained how my vision quest had led me to the discovery of his artwork. He chuckled and said, "you're just on the brink of a much larger world."

As it turns out, he was right, although I don't think in the way he meant it. What I was on the brink of was the world of screenwriting. I took all of my research and distilled it into a story of a young man who goes to England and stumbles into a crystal cave where he awakens Merlin from a magic spell -- then returns to New York and finds that it wasn't all a dream, and that Merlin has followed him home and chosen him to be his next pupil.

I wrote several drafts, and each time I did, it seemed that the events I created in my story were being recreated in my real life. Soon after writing a scene where my main character gets mugged, I got mugged. I wrote a sequence where two knights on horseback are jousting on the Brooklyn Bridge and the next day I saw Woody Harrelson and Kiefer Sutherland dressed as cowboys riding horses across the Manhattan Bridge. Likewise, the things I experienced in my life were finding their way into the script -- the tai chi sword master, my trip to the Cloisters, the Grail Castle in Central Park. I got so wrapped up in my story that I never wanted it to end. It was a whole new world.

Eventually I decided to enter a contest, thus giving myself a deadline. I finished the script and sent it off, fully expecting to hear from Steven Spielberg any minute. I didn't win the contest, though, and I never heard from Spielberg. But that didn't deter me. I was already researching my second script -- based on my love of the Sherlock Holmes stories -- and was reading everything ever written on the subject. And loving every minute of it.

I finished the second script a lot faster than the first. And I even attracted the attention of a William Morris agent. I was on my way now. I had proven that I wasn't just a 'one hit wonder' and that I had material with commercial appeal. And I already had a third idea, about a guy who fantasizes about being James Bond. There was only one thing left to do, and that was to move to Hollywood.

I still don't know where this path is leading, but looking back I am able to connect some of the dots. Getting fired from that publishing 'dream job' gave me the freedom to pursue a passion that has kept me inspired ever since I read that first script. And lately, I have only become more inspired. I know there are more 'dots' on the horizon. I just haven't connected them yet.

Feedback

Several years ago, when I lived in New York, some friends and I were involved in something which, like it or not, was often referred to as a men's group. Not that there's anything wrong with being in a men's group. It's just that the term carries with it certain connotations and associations, such as the image of a group of bare-chested men sitting around a campfire whining about how their Daddies didn't love them enough. Rest assured that in our group, all whining took place with the participants fully clothed. Besides, our group was really more of a friend's group than a men's group.

And to be fair, whining was not something our group condoned. I found this out the hard way one night, whining about my chronic issue: why do women always treat me like crap? I was about midway through my presentation when the guys stopped me short. We've heard this all before, they said. And we don't need to hear it again. Until you come up with some kind of solution or at least a new attitude, consider this subject off-limits.

I was stunned. What a bunch of assholes! I thought these guys were supposed to be my friends! Here I had trusted them with my deepest darkest fears and they turn around and kick me in the teeth. Besides, if I can't complain about my lousy love life, what the hell else am I gonna talk about?

But I didn't argue. I was hurt and I felt humiliated, but on some level, I also knew they were right. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized just how right they were. By the time the next meeting rolled around, I was truly grateful to have such good friends, who were willing to risk hurting my feelings in order to give me the kick in the ass that I desperately needed. And over the years, I have come to see that moment as one of the most important defining moments in my life.

When I left New York for Hollywood, I left my group behind. They are still together, though. Still meeting on a regular basis to listen to each other's problems and give each other corrective ass-kicks when necessary. I miss having that kind of support and guidance. For a while I toyed with the idea of forming a West Coast chapter. At one point, three members of the original group were living here in LA. But it never came together. Too much space out here. Not enough community.

Meanwhile, I was working on my writing as much as possible, and running into the same issue over and over again: You need to have other people read your stuff so you can see if you are doing it right. You need to have feedback. Now, occasionally, I have been lucky enough to find someone who was interested in one of my scripts and would actually give me 'notes' on it. But these opportunities came rarely, and often after receiving the notes I would be left on my own to try and figure out what they meant, without being able, for whatever reason, to follow-up with the person who gave them.

This is why, I learned, writer's join writer's groups. And if you think men's groups have a bad rap, my idea of a writer's group was a thousand times worse. Who in their right mind would volunteer to sit in a room full of writers and listen to them blather on and on about their stupid little characters or their dopey plot points or their ridiculous "themes"? Not me. I'd rather have my roots planed.

But then I met a fellow screenwriter who was in such a writer's group and was always telling me how helpful it was. How the other writer's could keep you from falling into the same old traps and show you where you needed to go with your story. It sounded wonderful, like my old friend's group but with writers. How cool. I wondered if I could join his writer's group. But, it seemed that his group was very restricted. He told me they weren't accepting anyone new -- too many people and they would lose focus. I didn't believe him. I figured he just wanted to keep his precious group to himself. A lot of writers are like that out here. Afraid if they give anything away, there won't be enough for themselves.

So, I tried to start my own group. I attended a series of screenwriting seminars and collected email addresses from the other writers. By the end, I had a pretty good list -- around thirty names. I figured that would winnow itself down to about ten, which would be just the right amount. I even checked into renting a meeting room at the Farmer's Market where we could all get together. I sent out several rounds of emails, trying to arrange a schedule everyone could agree to. But, what I found was that out of thirty people, only one or two were actually interested enough to follow through. And one of them lived in San Francisco.

So, I gave up on the idea forming my own writer's group. But I was still getting comments on my scripts like, "it's 80 percent there," and, "the writing's not quite where it needs to be." Real helpful. Obviously I needed better feedback. Then, one day out of the blue, a friend sent me an email about a writer's group that was looking for members. I checked it out. This group meets every week and holds staged readings of 30-page excerpts from members screenplays. Then the rest of the group offers comments. It sounded intense, but also incredibly helpful.

So, I submitted some sample scripts and went to a few meetings, doing my best to contribute intelligent-sounding notes during the commentary section. I was pretty impressed by the quality of the writing as well as the notes. Several of the writers have had their works produced, and all are very good at articulating their criticisms and suggestions. Plus there is a pool of very talented actors who volunteer to come in and read the scripts onstage every week. It's a great way to find out if your dialogue is working or not.

After a couple of weeks, I was asked to join. Within a month I had my first 30 pages presented to the group. It was very cool to hear my work being read onstage. The actors did a great job. Afterwards I took my place on the stage to absorb the comments of my peers. And, boy did they let me have it. I wanted feedback? Oh, I got feedback alright. I had no idea there were so many things I could be doing wrong. It was kind of brutal. I just kept smiling and writing, hoping it would all be over soon.

Then something amazing happened. One of the writers made a suggestion. And then somebody else picked up on it and expanded on it. Then others did, too. And before I knew it, I had a whole new approach to my script. A script I've been working on for years. And not just a new approach, the right approach. It really clicked. And I could tell by the reaction, that everyone else agreed. They had solved my problem. A problem I never knew I had.

Suddenly I realized what a writer's group was really for. Much like my friend's group back in NYC, these people were here to help me. They care about the same things I care about. They want me to make my script better. And I want to do the same for them.

I went back to my old script with a burst of energy, working to incorporate the excellent advice I'd gotten. It felt like a brand new movie. I couldn't wait to get it back up onstage to show the group what I had done. I even began writing some of the parts to fit the characterizations created by the actors. They were helping me, too. And I wanted to write better lines and create more interesting characters for them to perform. It was a blast. Who knew writing could be so much fun?

I don't know why it took me so long to find a group like this to work with. But I know what my Mom would say: She would say that I found this group because I was ready to find it. That I needed to reach a point where I could accept the feedback and criticism and be open to new ideas. Among other things, I have learned not to contradict my Mom on matters such as these. She is usually right. I'm just glad I finally got here, wherever 'here' is, because I am ready to make the most of it.

Because to me, it's not just a writer's group, it's a friend's group.

Sugar Mountain

Oh, to live on Sugar Mountain
With the barkers and the colored balloons,
You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain
Though you're thinking that
You're leaving there too soon...

[The following is excerpted from The Fire and the Rose, a novel I wrote my senior year of college. At this point in the story, the narrator, Jack Singer, has hitchhiked from Wilson College in Connecticut to Duke University to visit his high-school sweetheart -- only to discover that she has a new boyfriend. While at Duke, Jack meets up with his best friend Jesse Wolf, and together they embark on an odyssey across the state of North Carolina as they hitch their way to Nashville, Tennessee.]

A dirty-white Buick Cutlass swooped across two lanes and skidded to a stop in in front of us. Jesse and I looked in amazement as the two old winos inside gestured frantically for us to get in. We squeezed into the back and the driver vaulted us into traffic. The passenger turned around and squinted at us. He looked exactly like Otis the Drunk from Mayberry.

"Where ya headed?"

"Davidson."

"Yep."

The driver now turned around. He looked like a parole violater.

"Either ya'll gotta license?"

Jesse said nothing.

"I have one," I volunteered.

"Lessee it."

I handed him my license. He scrutinized it for a second and then gave it back.

"OK, you get to drive."

He swung the car into a rest area, and the two of them got out to piss.

"I think it's safer for me to drive than him," I said, climbing over the seat.

"I guess so," Jesse shrugged.

They got in, and we took off. The car had a hair-trigger gas pedal. Not really a pedal, just a worn-down nub where the pedal used to be. The slightest touch and it would do eighty. I tried to keep it down to around fifty, but the two drunken fools kept urging me to go faster. The three of us were jammed in the front. Jesse was half-dozing in the back. The parole-violater was shouting instructions.

"Pull up next to that truck, boy. I want to shoot him."

"I think I'll stay back here." I tried my best to hide my fear, as I would with a skittish horse or a wild dog.

"Well, all right then... jes' lemme git my gun here."

He reached under the seat and whipped out a bottle of Night Train. I was relieved -- for the moment.

"Did we tell you that we stole this car, boy? Yer driving a stolen car!"

He turned to Otis. "Where did we steal this car?"

"Virginia, what'd he say, Belzey, Bezley? Beazley, BEAZLEY, Virginia!"

"We stole this car in Bezley, Virginia."

"BEAZLEY!"

"Beazley... Bezley, who was that nurse, last night, we was talkin' to at the Duke hospital, who was she? We was at Duke last night..."

"Was it Bezley or Beazley, I think he said Beazley."

"That's where we stole this car, Beazley, Virginia!"

"Where was we last night, I'uz two-thirds drunk."

"Duke, we was at Duke, remember that nurse?"

"I remember, I'uz two-thirds drunk."

"Boy, did you know that yer drivin' a stolen car?"

"I think this is the exit for Davidson." I announced. "I'm just gonna pull off the road here..."

"No, boy, you wanna get off the Concord exit, that's seven miles." He turned to Otis again.

"Now where did we get this car? Belzey?"

"Beazley," Otis burped. He was beginning to mellow. He looked like a baby with gas. "Beazley, Virginia."

"Lemme write that down," said the parole-violater, pulling a pen off the sun visor. He opened the glove compartment and pulled out an envelope that had the official seal of the Governor of North Carolina engraved in the corner. Even Jesse was watching now. The parole-violater scrawled "Beazley, Virginia" on the envelope and stuffed it in his pocket. I pulled off the road and stopped the car.

"Thanks for the ride."

Jesse and I jumped out before they could protest.

Otis slid over and took the wheel. He uttered a loud belch and they sped off into the sunset. I looked at Jesse.

"Did you see that envelope?"

"Uh-huh."

"Do you think those guys know the Governor of North Carolina?"

"Jack, I think one of those guys is the Governor of North Carolina."

The old parole-violater was almost right. We had to walk four miles to get to Highway 73. My feet hurt. We made a sign on Jesse's sketch pad that said "PLEASE" and waited by the highway. We got a ride before dark that took us all the way to the Davidson campus.

We stayed overnight with Spence, a friend who graduated from Watterson a year ahead of us. We had a nice dinner in Spence's frat and went out for a few beers. Then we returned to the frat to crash. We were leaving early for Nashville the next morning.

We woke Spence at seven a.m. and asked him how to get to Interstate 77. He got out of bed, led us across campus and pointed down a road leading west

"A mile and a half."

As we walked, the sky grew gray and cold rain started to fall. We stood on the side of Interstate 77 for two hours and got soaked. To pass the time we sang Grateful Dead songs.

Keep on movin' just a mile to go...

Our first ride was with a guy who said he'd hitched through these parts back when he was in the Army. We got his car soaking wet, but he didn't mind. He dropped us off under a bridge so we could at least stand out of the rain. We thanked him and waved goodbye. Jesse looked down the highway and predicted our next ride.

"This one."

A white Econoline van pulled over and we got in. It was loaded with all kinds of woodworking tools. The driver had a long, white beard and talked constantly about the rainy weather. He took us up to the junction with 1-40 West, leaving us under another bridge. He was going east. We waited under the bridge and watched a US Army caravan pass by. They all waved, and we waved back. A cop passed us too, and he waved. Hitching is legal in North Carolina.

Our first ride west was with a guy in a jeep. He had a CB radio and was able to cruise down the highway at high speeds dodging all the speed traps. He went so fast we repassed the Army caravan. The CB guy dropped us off in the middle of a beautiful mountain pass. The rain was just clearing. Directly in front of us, framed on both sides by steep valley walls, stood a beautiful peak as green and lush as Mount Abora. Jesse gazed up at it.

"Look Jack, Sugar Mountain."

We sang one of our favorite Neil young songs.

You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain...

The sun was out now, and we hung our wet coats on reflector poles to dry. The Army caravan passed us again. We all waved.

"You know, Jack, I haven't felt this good for a long time."

"Yeah, I even felt happy when we were at Duke, even though I was miserable."

"It's just good to be on the road, no worries, no responsibilities."

"Here comes a pickup. He's slowing down."

A sky blue pickup truck stopped, and we got in. There was a welder's torch in the bed of the pickup. The welder was blonde and sunburned. He said he used to be a med student at UNC, but he grew bored of the books and dropped out. He was on his way to a job. We talked about school and life and the road. He seemed like the happiest man alive, just driving around from job to job. He dropped us off at his exit and went on his way. We waited there for hours but had no luck. Suddenly, the welder reappeared. He laughed. He was now on his way to see his mother. He drove us a few miles up the road.

"Now, I don't want to see y'all again."

We promised he wouldn't. I looked around. We were in the middle of nowhere. I thought we'd never get a ride. We waited for hours. Few cars passed by. None slowed down. Finally, a white pickup appeared from out of nowhere and screeched to a halt at our feet. The window was down. I looked in.

"Uh, where ya'll headed?"

"Just fuckin' around. Get in."

The two of us squeezed into the cab with the two of them. They were about twice our age, but a lot less drunk than the pair we'd met the day before. The stereo was blasting the live version of American Woman by the Guess Who.

"I love this tape," yelled the driver and turned it up even louder.

"Don't you?"

I nodded.

"Y'all heard about the coal strike?"

I nodded again.

"Yeah, they's haulin' in coal from outta state on trains. We're goin' to blow up the tracks."

I smiled. They were going to blow up the railroad tracks. I leaned my head back and bumped it on one of their rifles. I hoped we hadn't pushed our luck too far. The driver whipped out a silver cigarette case and opened it. It was full of joints. He gave one to me.

"That's for later."

Then he took out another and lit it. When it got passed down the line to Jesse, he lit another and continued the process until each of us had a joint.

"Check down by your feet, there ought to be some beer left."

Jesse reached down and pulled out an eight-pack with four left.

"We'll have to stop and get more."

"They's eight more in back," offered the driver's trusty sidekick.

"Then we'll have to stop and get them."

He pulled off at the next exit and swung onto an access road paralleling the highway. Off to the side of the access road was a small store. We slid to a stop in the gravel parking and the two of them got out to piss on the side of another pickup truck. Then the sidekick grabbed the other eight-pack and we were rolling again. The driver grinned, heading towards the next junction doing seventy.

"I 'uz born in this county, know these roads good."

We could see the highway through the trees, and I noticed that we were passing the Army caravan again.

"Wonder where they're all goin'?" mumbled the sidekick, as we all opened our beers.

The driver handed me another joint to light. We were now on the back streets of Black Mountain, where Interstate 40 turned into Main Street for a mile or so. Standing at every traffic light along Main Street were soldiers carrying M16 rifles. We waited at the light till the Army caravan passed by, then we swerved back onto I-40. The sidekick leaned over me to get a better view, spilling his beer on Jesse's lap.

"Look at that motherfuckin' gun!"

They drove us to a place where the highway makes a sharp right and cars have to slow down -- assuring us we'd get a ride to Nashville from there. As we retrieved our packs from the back, the truck rolled forward onto Jesse's toe. Jesse shouted, and they took off laughing.

Sure enough, we got picked up within minutes. A souped-up Camaro rumbled up and a long-haired dude signalled us to get in the back. He and his 'old lady' were on their way to Texas. She was cute.

"Got any weed, man?"

I produced the joint I still had, and we drove on towards Nashville. Jesse fell asleep. I stared out the window listening to Eric Clapton. When we stopped for gas, the long-haired dude asked us if we had any money. When we said no, his 'old lady' bought us some crackers and soda from a vending machine. She then took the wheel and drove the rest of the way to Nashville. We arrived at sunset.

Christmas Moon

"Welcome to the Overlook Hotel!"

It all started out innocently enough. My friend Jim and I had decided to go on a hike on Christmas Day. We hadn't seen each other in a while, nor been hiking together in even longer. I suggested a couple of local trails in the Santa Monica Mountains, but Jim wanted to go up to the Angeles National Forest in the San Gabriel Mountains. He'd taken me up there a couple of times before, once to a place called Echo Mountain and another time to Henninger Flats, which by the way, is not flat at all. Those hikes were a little more challenging than my local favorites, but well worth the effort.

So, on Christmas Day, I packed up my supplies: camera, water, almonds, poetry journal. Plus a couple of awesome turkey pastrami sandwiches on this amazingly dense dark rye bread made with whole rye meal and black strap molasses, and my special ingredient, spicy hummus! I put the sandwiches into a handy insulated bag I'd picked up at a yard sale on one of our previous hiking trips.

When I got to Jim's house, he was rarin' to go. First, we drove his roommate Matt to a relative's house for a family Christmas party. Matt often goes with Jim on his hikes, but not today. Also in the car with us was Donza, Jim's dog, named for Aldonza a/k/a "Dulcinea" the peasant girl who is idealized by Don Quixote. Donza is part Labrador Retriever part Pit Bull, and all sweetheart. She was a "rescue" and still has a somewhat nervous demeanor around strangers and other dogs, but once you get her out on the trail she's one happy pup.

We took the 10 east and turned north on Santa Anita Ave., which runs right up into the mountains where it winds through Big Santa Anita Canyon, ending up at a place called Chantry Flat. Again, not flat. We circled the parking area, which was completely full, and found what appeared to be the last available spot on the side of the road leading back down the mountain. Chantry Flat has a large picnic area, a Ranger's station, and a pack store for outfitting hikers and backpackers. There are several trailheads branching off from Chantry Flat including one that goes all the way up to the Mt. Wilson Observatory. We were planning on taking the Upper Winter Creek Trail that runs along the canyon wall to a camping area called Hoegee's Trail Camp, then returning along the canyon floor along the Lower Winter Creek Trail, about five miles round trip.

We got out of the car and I grabbed my camera, my almonds, my journal and some water. I decided to leave the sandwiches for after the hike. Jim was pulling some things out of the trunk. I asked him if I needed to lock the door, but he said he would lock up. I shut my door and Jim closed the trunk. Then he looked at me.

"Uh-oh."

"What?"

"I think I left the keys in the car."

I looked in through the window and sure enough, there they were, hanging in the ignition. I tried my door thinking it was still unlocked. But it wasn't. Jim tried the other door. It too was locked. We were locked out. On a mountain. On Christmas Day.

"It's okay," Jim said. "I can call Triple-A. Oh, wait, no I can't. I left my phone in the car."

I'd left my phone in the car, too. In one of the pockets in my handy insulated sandwich bag. We looked around for a pay phone, but found none. We checked the pack store, but it was closed. So was the Ranger Station. There were a few private residences but they looked abandoned. The picnic area was swarming with people, though. Kids playing, people grilling. We thought about asking one of them to borrow a cell phone, but then decided we'd wait until after the hike. It was still early and we were only going five miles. We'd be much more disposed to sitting around waiting for a tow truck after we'd had our exercise. So off we went.

Jim led us up a fire road that turned into a trail. Soon we were deep into the canyon surrounded by trees and rocks and a trickling creek. It was really beautiful. I was glad we'd come up here. What a great way to spend Christmas Day. I'm not religious, but I've always said if you want to get closer to God, you have to go outside.

We talked about music. Jim and I were in a band called The Buzzards a few years back and we both consider ourselves songwriters. Another friend and fellow songwriter had recently sent out a list of his favorite records of the year. We discussed some of his choices. I told Jim all about a CD I'd been listening to lately that was inspiring me to write more songs.

We passed a few other hikers here and there. It was good to see other folks enjoying the trail on such a beautiful day. Chantry Flat was built at a time when Angelinos were flocking to the mountains to enjoy the natural beauty outside of the big city. A rustic resort called Sturtevant's Camp was constructed a little further up the trail from where we were going. Walking in the woods used to be a popular way for people to spend their leisure time. Nowadays most folks only seem to go for walks in shopping malls or on treadmills. But, happily, on Christmas Day there were plenty of people enjoying the trails of Big Santa Anita Canyon with Jim and Donza and me.

When we got back to the car, I still had a few almonds left and even a little water. We asked around to see if we could borrow someones cell phone, but it turned out that there wasn't any service up there. We hadn't thought of that. We scouted around again to see if we could find a pay phone. Still no luck. Outside the Ranger's office, I saw a guy throwing some stuff into a dumpster. I called to him, asking if he knew if there was a payphone around. He said there wasn't, but we might be able to get cell service if we walked down the road a bit. I told him we'd locked our phones in the car, so he offered to open the Ranger's office for us. But, when I went to find Jim, he'd already gotten access to land-line at one of the private residences and was on 'hold' with Triple-A.

When he got off the phone, Jim told me someone would be up to help us within an hour. That didn't seem so bad. We went back to the car to wait. By this point I kind of wished we had those turkey sandwiches I'd packed. We ate a few almonds and sat on the low stone wall across from the car. It wasn't late, but the canyon was in full shade already. And the wind was picking up. It was definitely getting cooler. I had a long sleeved shirt and a windbreaker in the car. Along with my cell phone. And those sandwiches. With the dark rye bread, made with black strap molasses. And spicy hummus.

Over the next hour, we saw many cars heading back down the mountain. Not too many coming up, though. The wind was blowing pretty steadily and it was cold. I jumped up onto the stone wall several times to try and keep warm, but my legs were kind of tired from the hike. We decided to move back across the road to get out of the wind, but it didn't make much difference. At least I had my poetry journal. I could always write a poem about how two idiots froze to death on Christmas Day in the middle of a National Forest.

Jim went back to call Triple-A again, while I waited with Donza. She was not thrilled about sitting around doing nothing while other dogs were off frolicking and smelling each other and such. But we had to keep her restrained or she'd try to mix it up, and that would spell trouble.

Jim returned with not-so-good news. The Triple-A Operator had said they sent a guy up to Chantry Flat, but somehow he didn't see us. Which was ridiculous, because we were literally the first car you would see if you drove up there. The Operator also said that they wouldn't be able to send another truck up the mountain because the road was closed due to a forest fire. This was also ridiculous because Jim was standing next to the Forest Ranger at the time and he said there was no fire. Nevertheless, the best she could do was call the local police and maybe they would come up and help us.

The whole phone-call process had taken about a half hour, during which time it had gotten darker and colder. Jim suggested that we might have to break a window. During our earlier scouting expedition, I had noticed several tools up around the pack store that might be utilized for breaking into a vehicle. I was in favor of prying open the trunk and climbing in through the back seat, a technique I'd seen work once before. Smashing the window seemed extreme to me. But Jim thought that prying the trunk would cause more damage and cost more money than simply replacing a window. We decided to wait a little longer to see if the cops showed up. We'd feel pretty dumb if we smashed the window two minutes before the cops arrived.

Over the next forty-five minutes or so, we saw almost every car exit the Chantry Flat parking area and not a single one come up the road from town. It seemed that maybe the Triple-A Operator was right and the road was closed. We were both pretty cold by now. My teeth were chattering and I was too tired to jump up and down anymore. I was out of almonds and water and the wind was getting relentless. Time for desperate measures.

I walked up the trail to the pack store, where I'd seen an axe leaning against a stack of wood. On the way I passed a woman who was grilling steaks. I don't really eat red meat anymore, but those steaks smelled awful damn good to me. I got to the parking lot for the pack store and looked around for the axe. It was pretty dark and I couldn't remember exactly where I'd seen it. Luckily there was a nearly-full Christmas Moon shining through the trees. I poked around an old shed that had a 'No Trespassing' sign on it, then went over to the front of the store. Suddenly, a bright light blinded me. It must have been on a motion sensor. It lit up the whole parking lot, including the stack of wood where the axe was. I grabbed the axe and headed back down the trail.

As I sauntered down the trail towards the car, I heard a gaggle of teenage girls waiting by the entrance to the main parking area. For a moment, I pictured myself from their point of view, hunched over and shivering, stumbling down the trail in the moonlight in a nearly deserted picnic area on Christmas Day -- carrying an axe. "Welcome to the Overlook Hotel!" I could see the headlines: "CRAZED AXE FIEND TERRORIZES INNOCENT SCHOOLGIRLS IN NATIONAL FOREST." I wondered what would be the proper course of action. Should I try to hide the axe from view by holding it behind my back? Or would that just make matters worse? Should I swing the axe freely by my side, devil-may-care, its sharpened blade glinting in the silvery moonlight? It seemed like a no-win.

Fortunately, the teenage girls paid no attention to me whatsoever, and I slipped by without incident.

When I got back to the car I held out the axe for Jim, but he declined, asking me to do the honors. I really didn't want to be the one to smash his car window. I'd never smashed a window before. At least not on purpose. But I'd seen it done on TV and it didn't look so hard. Besides, my sandwiches were in there.

I picked up the axe and swung for dead-center. Not too hard, but with a clean, firm strike. CRASH! The window exploded into a thousand nuggets of glass. I was shocked for a moment. It really had been easy. And now we were in!

Jim unlocked the doors and got into the car. He tried the ignition, but... nothing. The battery was dead. He had left the ignition in the "on" position. No problem, we could always give it push start. But first we tried flagging down a driver to see if they had any jumper cables. I think it was the van full of teenage girls I'd passed earlier. They had no cables. At about the same time, another van came up the road and went into the parking area. Jim and I were talking about how to push-start the car when the other van came by again. I flagged him down.

"Can you give us a jump?"

"It's the least I can do."

It was Triple-A. He had just made it up the road.

Turns out, this was the second Triple-A van that had been sent up the mountain to rescue us. The first one had literally burst into flames halfway up the road. The driver pulled over and jumped out just in time. The road had been closed for the past two hours while they put out the fire. The driver was unharmed, but apparently his wife was pregnant and due to go into labor any minute.

A few minutes later we were back in the car, engine running, heat on full, and headed down the mountain. I took out one of my sandwiches and handed half to Jim. I'd been describing them to him for the past three hours and he was looking forward to them as much as I was. They were delicious. Whole rye meal with black strap molasses, turkey pastrami, and spicy hummus. Best sandwich ever.

As we wound down the road back to civilization, we came upon a crazy sight. Blue, red and yellow lights flashing. Three fire trucks, two State Troopers, an ambulance, the Triple-A van, and another van that was little more than a burned-out shell. We stopped. The owner of the Triple-A van came up to our window with one of the Troopers. He asked us if we were the ones who had called for assistance, as if to prove to the Trooper that he was telling the truth. The Trooper just nodded and told him not to worry about it. I asked about the first driver's pregnant wife. The owner said she was fine -- she hadn't had the baby yet.

So that was nice.

We drove back down the winding road towards home, enjoying the rest of our amazing sandwiches, guided by the wondrous light of the blessed Christmas Moon.