The other day I was having lunch with a friend who mentioned that she had finally gotten around to reading one of my recent blogs. I hate that word, by the way: "blog." T.S. Eliot once said that the ugliest word in the English language was "television." I would like to nominate "blog" as runner-up. Anyway, my friend said she didn't actually finish the blog, because she got frustrated that it took me so long to "get to the point."
I don't get a lot of feedback on my writing. Every once in a while I do get a note from someone saying they liked one of my 'blogs', which is nice. As a screenwriter I depend on feedback, but it is not that easy to come by. A few weeks ago I got some amazing feedback on a script I wrote from a professional script analyst. It was specific and clear and extremely helpful. And it cost a hundred bucks. But it was well worth it, because without feedback I'm just a guy sitting in a room talking to himself.
So my friend's comment made me think a lot about why I write these 'blogs' and wonder exactly what the "point" is.
Perhaps coincidentally, over the past few months I've been reading some other blogs. At first I was just curious -- I read one blog about dating in L.A. and offered some wry comments. Then I read some of the other comments and thought a couple of them were funny and insightful. This led me to read the blogs written by the commenters, and then the comments on their blogs and so on and so forth. Soon I found myself caught up in an online "community" of bloggers -- reading their latest blogs, leaving my comments, following up on other reader's comments, etc. It was fun. I felt like a part of something exciting. People who wanted to share ideas. Fellow writers.
The initial excitement only lasted a couple of weeks until I began to notice a pattern. Most of the blogs I read seemed to be about blogging and many of the comments were from people either promoting their own blogs or sniping other bloggers. This interesting little world began to feel less and less like an open forum to exchange ideas and opinions and more and more like junior high school. The point of it all seemed to be popularity and cliquishness rather than expression and understanding.
Plus the writing didn't really hold up. Too many of the bloggers felt that simply venting their spleens was somehow naturally of interest to others. It can be, of course, when the venter actually has something worth saying. But most of the time the blogger is just whining about some ridiculous personal injustice or irritating inevitability with no attempt at originality or insight. Like, "I hate politicians because they are full of shit." Or, "My job sucks because my boss is a jerk."
And to make matters worse, these banalities are encouraged by a dimwittedly devoted posse who celebrate their mediocrity with such accolades as "u r awesome" and "I <3 you". It took me days to figure out that "<3" is supposed to be a heart, as in "I heart you."
Another common misconception among the bloggers has to do with attempted humor. Almost all of the bloggers that I've read belong to the misguided school of comedy that believes anything inappropriate or obnoxious is by definition hilariously funny. I'm not saying that being inappropriate or obnoxious can't be funny. But it usually isn't.
Eventually I became disinterested with the bloggers. There's only so much bad writing I can handle. Just because someone has an opinion and knows how to type doesn't make them a writer. Writing is a craft, not a hobby.
But bad writing is inescapable. Turn on the TV and you will be bombarded by it. Browse a magazine, if you dare, and you will surely step in it. Even books are not immune. I just got finished reading a novel that may get turned into a movie one day. It was an interesting story poorly written. But what really got me were the mistakes -- bad grammar, improper usage, incorrect spelling! I thought books were supposed to have editors. But either the editors didn't notice the mistakes or they didn't care. Or maybe they didn't even know the difference.
Fortunately, there is also some very good writing out there. I have a few favorite TV shows that I think are quite well done. There are certain authors I admire and will read anything and everything they've written. I've seen some decent journalism among the pages of a few magazines here and there. And then there's the movies.
This year, of the five movies nominated for Best Picture, three were based on works of literature and two were original screenplays. No Country for Old Men won Best Picture as well as Best Adapted Screenplay. The book was written by Cormac McCarthy who is one of those writers I truly admire. And the script by the Coen brothers was brilliant. I will see any movie by the Coen brothers.
There Will Be Blood was adapted by P.T. Anderson from a novel called Oil! by Upton Sinclair. For the first twenty minutes or so of the movie there is not a word of dialogue -- and yet you learn everything you need to know about the main character. That is great screenwriting.
Atonement was based on a book by Ian McEwan which employs a self-referential style of writing called metafiction to present its theme. After what felt like a slow start, I was utterly drawn into the world of the movie. By the end I was both emotionally moved and intellectually stimulated by the masterful use of both literary and cinematic technique.
The script that won the Oscar for best original screenplay was Juno by Diablo Cody. Many of you may have heard that Diablo Cody used to be a stripper, but you may not know that she first got noticed by Hollywood because she was also a blogger. She is one of the rare few who can be inappropriate yet funny. And by the way, God bless her for writing a movie in which a sensitive, pale, shy, skinny, guitar-playing cross-country runner ends up being the cool, sexy hero who gets the girl at the end. If only life were really like that then I would have a girlfriend like Diablo Cody.
However...
I originally began writing this 'blog' as a newsletter to keep in touch with friends and family I left behind when I moved to Hollywood sometime in the last century. I hoped it might serve as a kind of living memoir of my path from obscurity to glory. Instead it is merely a meandering chronicle of my decaying orbit around the fringes of oblivion. A cautionary tale, if you will.
So what, then, exactly is the point? It's a good question.
Is getting noticed the point? Is it all just a big popularity contest like junior high school? If a writer taps on his keyboard and there's no one around to hear him, does he make a sound?
I think maybe the point is craft. I am exercising my craft. I just want to keep trying to get better at what I do. And the only way to do that is to keep practicing.
Or maybe I should become a stripper. After all, I already have my stage name.
We had a big primary election here in California the other day. And even though I am registered as an Independent, I was able to cast my vote by requesting a Democratic ballot at the polling place. This fact was explained to me by none other than the luscious Scarlett Johansson, who took the time from her busy schedule to call me on the phone and explain exactly what I needed to do to make my vote count. I thought it was very sweet of her to think of me during such an important time in our nation's history. I wanted to show her how much I appreciated her thoughtfulness -- hoping that perhaps we might get together sometime to discuss politics. I didn't get a chance, however, as the line went dead as soon as she finished talking. I thought perhaps her cell phone had run out of juice.
Later I found out that a friend of mine had received a very similar call from Scarlett on the same day that I did. She must have been making a lot of calls that day. No wonder her battery ran out.
So, on election day, armed with Scarlett's helpful advice, I went to the polls to vote. It seemed a little silly to me that I should have to actually walk four blocks over to the apartment complex on King Street just to put my mark on a cardboard ballot. Wouldn't it be simpler and more efficient just to 'text' my vote in? It works on American Idol. And they could have the results instantly, instead of waiting for Fox news to make an "early" projection three hours after the polls have closed. Maybe they will have that worked out by November.
The polling place was crowded when I got there so I had to stand in line for a few minutes. This gave me the chance to think about who I might want to vote for. There was one candidate who I really liked, but didn't think could actually win a presidential election. And there was the other candidate who seemed to understand what it takes to win and is willing to do make the necessary moral sacrifices to do so.
At this point, maybe I should explain that I have a pretty poor track record when it comes to voting for President: I don't think I have ever voted for a candidate who actually won. (This includes a couple of elections where I didn't vote at all -- back when I was feeling particularly disenchanted with the American system as a whole.) So, I was faced with the choice of voting for the person I thought could actually win, just to see what that might feel like, or voting for the person I actually wanted to win, and thereby dooming him to certain defeat.
Earlier that day, I had lunch with my friend Glen who was very enthusiastic about one of the candidates, who like himself, happens to be a black man. I asked him how he can have so much faith in the American system to believe a black man could actually get elected President. Hell, I'm a white, male, right-handed, blue-eyed, heterosexual Christian and I have no faith in the system whatsoever. Glen said that black people have always relied on hope, because without hope they would have little else to live for. He said he believes that one person can still make a difference in this country and this particular candidate was just the man to do it.
It was inspiring to hear Glen talk about hope and it made me want to believe that he was right. One man can make a difference. My vote is important. I should vote for the person I believe in and not the one who seems more likely to win.
But as I stood in line at the polling place, it occurred to me that hope has never done me much good. In fact, hope has almost always led me astray. You could say that hope has been my worst enemy. Nothing that I have hoped for has ever come true. In fact my persistent belief in hope has propelled me down a path of continuing disappointment and failure. If I didn't have hope, I might have had a chance at leading a normal life. And even if a "normal life" might not bring me much joy, at least it wouldn't be filled with discouraging solitude.
Hope sucks.
Now, I know what many of you are thinking -- and I've heard it all before. It's my negative attitude toward life that has caused me all these disappointments. If I believe that things won't work out, then they won't. It's a self fulfilling prophecy. We create the world we live in. Etc., etc.
Bullshit.
The reality is, I never expect things to go wrong. I always think my dreams are going to come true. That's the problem. Take dating for instance. Every time I meet a woman that I'm attracted to, I am filled with optimism and, yes, hope. I actually believe that despite all of the bad experiences in the past, this time it's going to work out. This time I've found someone who will accept me for who I am. Someone who will appreciate me. Someone who feels the same way about me as I do about her.
And what happens? I get my hopes up. And then I get them dashed on the rocks again.
'Oh,' you're thinking, 'but that's because you get your hopes up too high and you scare her off by being too enthusiastic and needy.' Not so fast, smarty-pants. I've thought of that, too. And in order to offset my natural tendency to get ahead of myself, I actually enlisted a brain trust of advisors to help me gauge my actions and responses when it comes to dating. Three close friends (two women and one man) with whom I could doublecheck my instincts before plunging headlong into unbridled optimism. The result, I spent six months wooing a woman with calm and measured actions only to find out that she had meanwhile fallen head over heels in love with a total jerk who dumped her three months later.
Because it doesn't matter what I say or do or how I feel or don't feel. She's already decided within the first fifteen minutes of meeting me whether I am in or out -- based on a set of complex variables that I have no control over whatsoever. And my misguided hopes have no effect on the outcome other than to set me up for another fall.
The same goes for screenwriting. Every time I write a script I believe it is a winner. Every time I meet a producer or an agent, I think this is the person who's going to help me. Every time I send out a script to someone, I think they're going to love it. Every time the phone rings I think it might be someone with an offer. Every time I check my email, I think there will be a message from one of the countless people I am trying to keep in touch with, finally writing me back to tell me that they read my script and would like to meet with me.
And pretty much every time I am wrong.
So why should I have hope? It's completely illogical. Worse that that, it's insane. Sane people realize that particular actions lead to particular results. If you perform a particular action over and over again, each time with the same result, then you would be completely crazy to expect a different result the next time you performed that action. Even if you hope for it to be different. Even if you believe it will be different. Even if you visualize it and concentrate on it and ask the universe to magically deliver you a different result. That's the clinical definition of insanity.
But hope persists. Why?
I myself once came up with a logical basis for hope. If I send out a script and I hope it's going to sell, then I feel good inside. Whereas if I send out a script and I assume no one will like it, I feel lousy. Therefore it is logical to hope for the best. That way you get to feel good up until the point when you find out that you are wrong. Also, most enterprises, including dating and screenwriting, have a certain amount of luck involved -- which is to say, the more opportunities you take advantage of, the better your odds of success. Therefore by hoping for the best, you remain encouraged and continue to keep trying, thereby improving your chances.
Unless you die before you succeed. Then you are just a misguided loser.
So what's the point of hope if it leads you to continue trying to achieve something that has so little chance of success that it is virtually impossible?
Seen in this light, hope is like a drug that people become addicted to until it destroys their lives. What do you think keeps the lights of Las Vegas burning through the night? Hope. Everybody in Vegas is hoping for something. But who's really succeeding? The guys with the computer programs that keep track of every nickel, dime, and quarter that changes hands, that's who. And at the end of the day, the house wins again. To expect any other result would be crazy.
So with this in mind, I walk up to the voting booth, ballot in hand, to cast my vote. I know it would be crazy to think that the guy I believe in could actually become President. So what would be the point? I would just be throwing my vote away. Wouldn't I?
That night I watched the election returns the way a gambler watches a game on which he has bet everything he's got. It was as if my entire life's philosophy were up for validation or rejection. To hope or not to hope? That is the question.
I kept switching between five different channels to see who would make the first projection in California. I believe it was MSNBC who won the race on that one. Around two hours after the polls closed, with fifteen percent of the vote, they called the winner. And it was no big surprise. My candidate lost. As usual. I blame myself. Maybe if I hadn't voted for him, he might have had a chance. That's what I get for voting with my heart instead of my head. That's what I get for hoping.
But I continued to watch the returns as the results from the other states came in. And it was kind of weird. My candidate was doing really well. In fact you could say he was winning. The contests were pretty close in a lot of cases, but he sure did get a lot more votes than people expected.
And a week later he did it again. He won more primaries, in places nobody expected him to win. In fact at last count, he is actually in the lead.
And the Giants won the Superbowl!
I guess you never really know what's going to happen. Which I suppose might be considered another logical reason to believe in hope. Not that I'm going to go all flaky and buy a copy of "The Secret" or anything.
Is everybody in? The ceremony is about to begin...
A few weeks ago, on one of my frequent walks, I passed a restaurant that had a plaque on it which said that the building was once known as The Doors Workshop, where the band The Doors recorded their final album, L.A. Woman. And it occurred to me that almost everywhere I go I pass by a place connected to the legend of Jim Morrison. Not unusual -- since Jim lived in this neighborhood for several years during his most creative period as lead singer and songwriter for The Doors. Right around the corner from where I live is a quiet little street where there is an apartment building with another plaque on it that says "Jim Morrison's Last U.S. Residence." And of course there's Barney's Beanery where Jim used to hang out at the bar. Just up the hill on Sunset Boulevard is the famous Whiskey-A-Go-Go where The Doors first gained popularity. And then there's the Canyon Country Store in Laurel Canyon, immortalized in a Jim Morrison song called "Love Street" (...here's the store where the creatures meet...) Supposedly Jim and his girlfriend Pamela had a house nearby (on "Love Street").
I decided to try and find it.
According to a guidebook I consulted, Jim and Pam's house was just around the corner from the Canyon Country Store on a street called Rothdell Trail. (Apparently Jim changed the name of the street for the song.) I decided it would make a nice little hike so I headed up Crescent Heights Ave., which crosses Sunset Blvd. and merges into Laurel Canyon Blvd.
On my way up, I stopped at the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights to browse around the Virgin record store, which is going out of business. Everything was 30% to 50% off, but the prices were still too high for me. I chatted briefly with a woman who had a shopping basket full of CDs, including several Doors albums. She had a long list of selections and was only about halfway done. I thought about asking her to join me on my adventure, but she probably wouldn't have wanted to walk that far.
The Virgin record store is in a retail complex built on the site of what was once Schwab's Drug Store. Back in the golden days of Hollywood, the lunch counter at Schwab's was a kind of headquarters for screenwriters. This was largely due to the fact that across the street from Schwab's, there stood a lavish residential hotel called The Garden of Allah. For years, whenever "serious" writers like Fitzgerald, Odets, Hemingway, Faulkner & Dorothy Parker came to town, The Garden of Allah was their address. However, in 1959, the Garden of Allah was torn down and replaced by a bank and a strip mall. There is a now drive-thru McDonald's on the site, frequented by the likes of Paris Hilton and Britney Spears. Kind of the Greta Garbo and Dorothy Parker of today. Schwab's closed in 1986.
Joni Mitchell, a resident of Laurel Canyon around the same time Jim Morrison lived there, reportedly wrote the song Big Yellow Taxi about the destruction of the Garden of Allah, "...they paved paradise and put up a parking lot."
I stopped in at the Pollo Loco (located approximately where the pool would have been in the Garden Of Allah days) for a quick taco before continuing my trek up into the Canyon. This turned out to have been a smart call.
The hike along Laurel Canyon Blvd was actually quite nice once I got away from Sunset. There is a quiet side street that runs along the main road which is shady and traffic-free. The side street took me all the way up to the Canyon Country Store. Once there I turned right to follow Rothdell Trail as it wound its way up the hill behind the store. I did not see the house I was looking for, which according to the guidebook was just around the bend. I wandered down a dirt road which dead-ended at the gates of a quaint little cottage nestled among the trees. This certainly did not look like the right house, but it did look familiar. I could have sworn it was the house used in the movie The Doors that was supposed to be Jim and Pam's house. But I didn't want to bother anyone so I doubled back.
As I came down towards the store again, I noticed a two story stained-wood building with a bell on its roof. I remembered reading in the guidebook that Jim's house had a bell on top of it. That must be it. Success. And surprisingly easy to find -- it is in fact directly across from the Canyon Country Store in plain view of Laurel Canyon Blvd. They might have mentioned that in the guidebook.
Now for the second part of my adventure. I had read that further up along Rothdell is an old staircase that leads past several houses and into an open field. A trail leads along the fence bordering the back of the residences to another set of stairs that goes back down to the parking lot behind the store. It seemed like a nice little excursion. And the guidebook said there was an amazing view from up there.
The stairs weren't hard to find. But they were a little treacherous. They look like they haven't been maintained since the days of the Garden of Allah. I passed several tumble-down cottages perched on the side of the hill, only accessible by these narrow and dangerous stairs. I wondered who lived up here? Reclusive ex-rock stars? Mountain goats?
I got to the top of the stairs and found the trail. The guidebook had described it as a "deer trail" and they weren't kidding -- there were fresh deer tracks in the soft dirt. Big ones. I followed the deer tracks along the side of the ridge to a clearing and then paused to take in the view. It was magnificent. To the south I could see the whole lower canyon and parts of the city below, brilliantly lit by the low-angled winter sun. To the west was Lookout Mountain Road snaking its way up into the hills. It was pretty beautiful. And peaceful. I couldn't believe I was smack-dab in the middle of L.A. And not even in a park. I was in some kind of no-man's land. Following a deer trail.
I kept along the ridge for a while looking for the stairs leading back down. Eventually I realized that I had gone way past the parking lot and was hanging out over the edge of the ridge with no way to get down. I started to wonder what other types of creatures inhabited this place... coyotes? mountain lions?
I decided to turn back.
At one point I spotted a gully that seemed to lead back down to civilization. When in doubt, go downhill. I scrambled down the steep walls, clutching at roots and branches as I slid past, until I reached the top of a high wall that looked down into somebody's patio. It didn't seem prudent to try and jump down onto the patio and possibly risk getting shot at in the process. So I had to climb back up the gully. Crawl is more like it. Hands and knees, eating dirt the whole way. I paused about halfway to lean against a tree and catch my breath. My heart was pounding in my throat. I was in full-on survival mode. Every time I grabbed at a root or a shrub, I half-expected a rattlesnake to lunge out at me.
Finally, I made it back up to the deer path. I followed it back around the ridge, assuming I would have to return to the original set of stairs. But I caught a glimpse of a narrow opening and on further inspection discovered that it led to the second set of stairs. I clung to the metal railing for dear life as I made my way down this equally decrepit flight.
About halfway down I passed an attractive young couple on their way up. I asked them if they were going for a hike, but they just looked at me like I was a madman from the desert. They were merely visiting a friend who lived in one of the houses along the staircase. I told them about the amazing deer trail and the wonderful view and they reacted with polite disinterest.
When I got back to the store I bought bottle of water and asked the clerk about Jim's house. He confirmed that it was the one with the bell on it. I sat on the front porch and drank my water watching as the pretty people drifted in and out of the store. I thought they probably have no idea that just around the corner was the home of the Lizard King himself, a true poet of our time, a visionary, an outlaw politician who exhorted the masses to break on through the doors of their timid perceptions and experience life with immediate passion and howling urgency. To resurrect their savage souls and burn down the cathedrals of complacency. To derange their senses and run wild in the streets, tearing down the comfortable walls of their safe suburban sanctuaries.
But they probably wouldn't care.
I hobbled down the hill back to my little room and thought about the deer, running along the trail in the moonlight, miles above the city, guided only by scent and instinct.
I thought about Jim, walking these same streets that I walk, dreaming of poetry and revolution. I think Jim's ghost is still here, still walking these streets, still trying to get us all to "WAKE UP!" His room in the "green hotel" is still there, with its window looking out over the living, breathing L.A. streets.
I saw his face today on the Sunset Strip, his searching eyes gazing into the souls of the misguided and the lost. As if to ask:
