My Writing Process (Sometimes)

HOW TO WRITE A STORY (when you don’t have anything to write about)

2:18 PM

Here’s what I do. It’s more about DOING than the RESULT. Just keep working, keep creating, make some shit. Now. Always be making shit. You never know when gold will appear in the shit. Also, pretty sure this will not be one of those times. But let’s go!

Have an idea. Anything will do. Really, just Google something random. I’m going to do it right now. Be right back. Let’s see. The first thing that comes in to my head is “spearhead pack” for whatever reason. It doesn’t mean anything at all, just words. We will go with that.

Ok, so apparently there is a WW2 video game called “Spearhead” so I got a lot of results for that. Scrolling down I found this picture:


I like it. Here’s what I notice and think about on viewing it- just some massive leaps in assumptions in order to build upon. I don’t research the actual picture because who cares who these assholes really are.

They look sort of happy, but I don’t think their relationship is good. They are not related because of the hair color. Some kind of work buddies.

It’s some sort of sponsored, pontoon boat race. Looks like it is sponsored by Powerade, the sports drink. That’s stupid, which is good.

So these guys, Dan and Antonio, they have on some life jackets that don’t look like they are professional pontoon racing equipment. Like some kind of weekend escape thing.

It looks pretty fucking dangerous, actually.

Ok that’s enough.

Let’s get some detail about their lives. Just start writing. Whatever comes to mind.

Now why are these dudes together? Ok. They work for client acquisition in the sales and marketing department of Powerade, which is a division of Pepsi. They are aggressive, alpha males in competition with each other, though Tony is technically a subordinate of Dan, who is a junior exec- which is why Dan is in the front of the boat.

Dan is married to a complex woman. She’s blonde and his age, they have been together since their mid-twenties. As Dan got to be more successful in his business, all the way up to junior exec level, Jenna his wife started to feel the pressure to stay young and attractive in line with social pressures. She’s had plastic surgery. Very large breast implants, a facelift, and she always dyes her hair very blonde. Striving to be what society things a rich exec’s wife should be. She longs for more, though. She went to college for Linguistics and Art history double-major. The role of housewife has been somewhat under stimulating for her and she has come to resent Dan for her sacrifices. The time and energy she gave him to make his life easier, so he could perform at his job. She’s neglected, sad. Her prescription of Zoloft and Valium helps to dull the boredom of everyday life, and she works out quite a bit. With a housekeeper to do the work, she finds little release. She’s taken up a number of hobbies and is quite good at them- painting, sculpting, even some poetry she had published online.

She fucking hates Powerade but mixes it with Skyy vodka often. Sometimes during the day. She’s never quite sloshed, but maintains a level of numbness throughout every day. She has recently been engaging in online chats with strangers that are fairly explicit but done with no real intention of cheating in real life. She masturbates frequently to violent pornography.

Dan is impotent. Sterile. In their thirties they tried to have children, which Jenna was quite frankly never that on-board for. Dan grew up with three siblings in a Suburb of Cleveland and has always imagined his life would involve raising the same kind of tight-knit family he grew up with. He’s come to resent Jenna in a number of ways because of it- she is unwilling to try more invasive methods of conception like medical assistance or surrogacy because her heart has never really been in the idea of babies.

Their sex is frequent but mechanical. They have sex almost daily, like a chore that must be carried out. In both their minds this means that their marriage is doing well. That they still have a strong connection. Dan is a surprisingly adept and passionate lover when he tries, which he no longer does. In his fraternity college days he had a great number of sexual experiences and is at this point rather bored of sex in general. The idea of not producing children and his lower testosterone is a contributing factor. The two have tried many things to enhance their sex: light bondage, role playing, toys. All these brought a momentary novelty but ultimately failed to bring about anything other than temporary excitement and surface insecurities.

Dan’s father was a fairly successful owner of a chain of mattress stores in the greater Ohio area. Kind but demanding of his oldest son Dan, he expected great things from the boy. Dan was a standout three-sport athlete in high school but was not quite good enough to play at the collegiate level, which instead of causing him to doubt himself instead motivated him to pursue other ways to be exceptional. He attended Duke with a partial academic scholarship and received a degree in Marketing and Business. He occasionally had sex with his fraternity brothers but does not consider himself bisexual, simply sexual. After college he went to work for Pepsi, starting as a low-level copywriter and eventually moving up to head his own department and then to executive level.

Dan’s siblings, a brother and sister, grew to be an aircraft mechanic and medical administrator. Dan is closer to his sister and talks to her a few times a month on the phone, though she lives in Denver.

Dan’s mother was a small, delicate woman with a mocha complexion she got from her Jewish heritage. She was nurturing but slightly cold with demonstrating her affection for Dan. Her appearance and behavior placed a subconscious idea of his ideal woman: the opposite of his mother.

Here’s where Jenna came in. 5’10” in heels and outgoing, she caught his eye when Dan attended a baseball game with a collection of friends. She was dating a man with little ambition and a very large penis at the time. Dan and Jenna knew they had immediate chemistry and ended up fucking for the first time in a portable toilet outside the sports stadium.

They have often discussed their fantasies and are open, and communicate well. They are not entirely unhappy but feel somewhat in stasis. Like their lives are secure and privileged, but not complete.

Antonio- Tony- grew up with a single mother and an older sister. Five years older, she was fiercely protective of him as a young boy. Tony grew into a strong and handsome young man rather quickly, and is accustomed to having the attention of women. He yearns for it, the way he needed his sister’s attention. This has led to a large series of very short relationships: not using the women for sex by any means as he is sensitive to their emotions, but also not willing to commit or invest in only one woman.

Ok. So we know who these people are. Looks like Dan is the main character with Jenna being a close second. At this point, knowing who they are, I see Antonio as possibly the antagonist. The disrupter. My impulse is to create a story about Tony fulfilling Jenna’s sexual outlets with Dan’s approval. About the three of them learning and exploring what it means to be in an open relationship. That also sounds pretty fucking boring. So I’m going this way. Some kind of metaphor! Yay! Here we go:

The sea water was choppy, the peaks of the waves white with foam. Dan and Tony had pulled the raft to the side of the beach and made a small fire. They sat together, in silence, trying to get a grasp on the situation at hand. Dan started to speak, but no words but a stifled sob slipped out. Tony looked at his forearm; deep rope burns painful and bleeding. He tore a piece from his t-shirt and wrapped his wound.

Dan looked out into the darkness, though it felt more like a blanket of oblivion than the frightening unknown. A small crab scuttled on the beach beside him, picking at dead things.

The two wordlessly slept, exhausted from the terrifying events, life jackets still on.

As the sun rose crimson, the waves started to roll in debris. First some shattered pieces of wood lacquered and painted. Then several unused life jackets. A few pieces of paper with rather talented drawings, the ink now running and distorted. The two men stood and looked out to the ocean. Nothing on the horizon. No sign of other ships or helicopters. They turned and headed inland.

The two seemed to move as a team- years of working together had given them a degree of trust and synchronicity. Through thick growth of trees, the two traveled. Warm an humid, Tony took off his shirt and wrapped it around his head. His gym body and HGH strength seemed to serve his less than Dan’s pure guile. A clearing. Then a wall.

Concrete and painted light pink, the wall rose seven feet to the top and had a series of metal spikes protruding from the top- the structure of the wall used as a security measure against outsiders climbing the wall. The two men followed the wall for several hundred yards. A gate.

The gate swung open, not locked.

A pool. A bar. A resort.

With a sigh of relief, the pair approached the bar.

The bartender greeted them “Looks like you guys have been out for an adventure.”

Dan replied “Yes. You could say that. I’ll have a Crown and Coke.”

Tony simply nodded to indicate the same.

“Two Crowns coming up. So. Where did the exploring take you?”

“We were on a boat. That got attacked.” Tony said flatly.

“Holy shit. Is everyone ok?”

“No. They’re mostly dead.” From Dan.

“What the fuck? What attacked you? Did you call anyone? Why are you drinking?”

“It was a fucking sea monster.” Tony explained.

“Wait wait wait. Are you guys on peyote?”

Dan nodded, and commented

“Yes. But that doesn’t change the situation.”

“hmm. Well. Okay. Here’s your drinks. That will be sixteen bucks.”

“Bill it to a room.”

“What room?”

“I don’t care.”

Later that night, the men are extraordinarily drunk. They sway as they walk, a combination of dehydration and hallucinogens and whiskey. Tony is nude now. No one seems to care. Tony is bleeding all over the fucking place, just splattering slick red goo on the pool surface. Into the pool, making a swirl of color in the blue-lit water.

Dan stands stone-faced, wearing a large straw hat and flower lei. He’s startled by a voice.

“You.. Didn’t look for me.” Jenna spoke up with no real inflection.

“Erm. We figured you died.” Dan, flat.

“Yea. Good assumption. There was a fucking sea monster.”

“I know. It ate the pig. I wanted that. I never had pig that was roasted on the spit like that.” Which seemed to bring Dan out of his fog a bit, talking about the pig he wanted to eat.

“Who cares about the fucking pig?” Jenna rebuked.

“I do.”

“Obviously. Anyway get me a drink. I dropped my Valium into the sea.”

“On purpose?”

“Not really.”



Tony, nude and erect, walks over to them with a pineapple with a little umbrella in it.

The three of them awake in a hotel room. All nude, empty glasses and pineapples all over the place. Kind of a fucking mess. The three walk downstairs to the continental breakfast, still naked, and take plates of food. Tony takes meat, Jenna yogurt, Dan several bagels and a Heineken.

They eat in silence.

A man approaches in a suit, a gold nametag that says “I do something at the hotel” on it.

“Are you all enjoying your stay?” he politely asks

“Very much. Thank you.” Jenna replied.

“Well, there is a small issue I wanted to inquire about.” Suit says

“Oh.” Says no one in particular.

“Yes. Apparently last night… after close, at around 4am.. There were a few.. incidents. All the pool chairs are currently in the pool. There is an obscene amount of blood on and around a majority of the liquor bottles in the bar.”


“And it appears as though someone set fire to a large pile of towels.”


A small Hispanic woman approaches the Suit man, who excuses him to have a brief conversation. He returns.

“Well. Ok. And housekeeping has gone in to your room and it is… Disorderly.”

“Sea monster. “

We see the two men, back at work. Drinking coffee and looking at a board of sales numbers and bullshit. Tony starts to talk-

“hey I just-“

Dan cuts him off “-it’s fine. It… it was nice.”

“it was.”

“So how’s the weekend looking for you?”

“pretty good. What did you have in mind? Tony expectantly


“I think I know where this is going…”

“Yep. Bring rope.”


Ok! So what do I have now? A story about three people. Two of them abandoned on a beach in what seems to have been some sort of disaster. Survival story? Nah. Metaphor for fucking. Like most things, it’s all about fucking. Power and status and sea monsters- they’re all just ways we quantify and compartmentalize our sexuality. These flawed fuckers just decided to look it in the toothy, scary mouth… and have sex with it.

And so that’s how I write a story when I don’t have anything in particular in mind. That’s how I write when I’m not writing for work or scripts or personal stuff. Just, fucking do it. Who cares if it sucks? It sucks. But there’s something to be said about always working, always creating. If you are a carpenter, sometimes you just have to make a stupid bookshelf. If you paint, paint a bowl. Who cares. Just do something. And some of my favorite things have come from this sort of “fuck it” attitude towards creation.

Also, I’m not a big fan of editing… Ever. I mean, I have to when it’s for a client or script so that things make sense. But I figure “here’s a thing I made. not going to change it, because in that time I’ll just make another thing.” Which I know is sort of stupid but hey, if your opinion mattered to me I’d… Wait it does. Don’t judge me. Love me for the quirky wonderful weirdo I am. Please love me.

So now go write something.

Of course, it’s better to have an idea and a reason and a plot beforehand. But you don’t have to. Have fun.


A new film I co-wrote. Check it out

Shot in NYC. Pretty happy with how it turned out.



The smell of the gun oil, of wood, of oldness
the mahogany and cold steel, pressed against my cheek
the slick, smooth sent, supple and inviting and sensual
for my first time
i clock the safety off
feel it’s weight and girth in my hands long
it’s a small caliber soft wood
but it feels like a steel beam
the place where the barrel meets the stock
it might as well be frozen
that’s how cold it feels
and i am shivering
with adrenaline
with excitement
with fear
the wood grain it feels so soft
like a silk handkerchief
like a piece of sorrow
accepted and new
my thumb twitches against the safety
contemplating giving up
going back
giving in
to this new experience that is so much too much
my left hand, fingers curled around the wood
finding the groove etched in
feeling the piece become a piece of me
fingers sink in to lacquered finish
i strengthen my arm
flex my muscle
unsure of what is to come
i look down the sight
it seems to be a mile away
from my eye to the end of the barrel
just a vast expanse of steel and explosion
between my nine year old face and the round
the way the action feels
its like poetry
like perfectly lubricated sex
the empty cylinder
it awaits you
it wants your load
the arm, its a perfect shape, strange and oddly angled it is still
nothing but perfect
and i lift, i am the machine
i am nothing
i am oil and metal and precise perfection
and the arm gits top
and i slide it back
and the action the bolt
is so close to my face i could touch it
with the tip of my tongue
and the round
it pops up
such a silly little sound
for such a deadly amount
it pops up
happy to finally be of use
its sole purpose now in view
and the feeling
the power
the purpose
i know how gods feel
i know how lives end
and the smooth
the insertion
the round into the chamber
the way the bolt feels
sexual does it no due
and once i’ve penetrated
no going back
the swing arm
slides down, locks in
the deed is done
and i move my palm down around the stock
grasping the wood
and i feel myself breathe in
half a breath
and hold it
like he told me to
and i look down the mile of sights
into anything
i am weapon
one eye closed
i finish this rite
the volume
nothing can prepare you for
the noise
even in these over ear pads
even with this small round
the noise
the shock
the kick
the crack
the jolt
none of it
are you ever ready for
not really
every time
it’s like the first time
even with a thumb sized bore
it doesnt compare
to that first feeling
i smile
and sweat
and cry
and can’t let him know any of this
because i am a man
a machine
i don’t feel
i am this
and so
the arm goes up
the round, it’s shell flies out so fast and hot
the acrid smell of spent powder overtakes that of sweet oil and wood
the sound of the empty hitting the rocks
somehow over the deaf
and as i pull back
another comes in
and i know
this is where i am
this process
is where i belong
i am machine
and twenty then two thousand rounds flow through
through me then the chamber then the muzzle
and nines and thirtys and fifties
and gauges and slugs and mines
and automatic
and systematic
i still dream of it
more nights than not
it all makes sense
it’s all i can become
and i have clarity
i have meaning


the wither
The weather Shifts Whether or not you can Tether
To the dock Wood
Splits Frozen water Shatters a stone
A small fragment Escalates Into an avalanche zone The fever freezes the ferver
The moisture enters the server
Short circuits the
circular currents
The technoundertow Seizes the Weak survivor Sucks it down below Effortless in it’s
Remorseless devouration And careless In it’s affectation
Ashes remain No chance to reconcile No opportunity
To atone Life sentence paid The cost of living The debt erased Rna.
Ribonucleic acid It’s a transponder, encoder, decoder, plan of attack, set of assumptions, set of instructions From the dioxy
Tells the proteins how and what and where and when to build
From the second the cell seperates Its oxidizing The inhilation of the
most base of survival Erodes and destroys the cellular wall Permeates the skin Punctures
the thin Willowy Transclucent
Frail Hemmoraging Til it’s just a lifeless
Husk of a whole Empty hull Of Him



She laughs, a childlike eruption of a bubble volcano. Sparks of magnesium noise white hot strobes break the air into waves. Her noise is joy is pumping fake maple syrup from the big cafeteria dispenser is the feeling of outside the windows snow breaking the bitter cold. The warmth of snow on sunless days so desolately cold you die inside. The blanket makes the air heavy, makes it all seem better. Like all the pain was for a reason. The cold comes to bring us the beauty. The hurt is worth the heart. The sticky syrup is worth the rub.

She makes it worth the hurt. Makes it ok that you feel rage and tearing and madness. It’s ok to feel. Let her in, all the way in to do as she pleases with the tiny fat pieces of fermented fruit that used to be the succulent beat of a proud engorged heart. Shredded pulled pork and left to soak in the sugars and muddy bootprints. Rotting in their own juices and the smashed particles of I LUV U hearts and cinnamon candy canes. Make it okay for her to get drunk on the sweet shame of your poor choices. Enjoy the void as she eats it all away. Relax, you’re finally safe. The firestorm of madness is where you belong. She’s all you will ever belong.

She takes you away from the past. She’s huffing paint thinner into your soul. She’s scorching away the black tar residue. The buildup of burnt cotton candy granules and trashfire fumes. Stripping the opiate and grief out of every breath. She’s kicking your teeth in to unclench your jaw. Talk through your teeth, bleed on her, spit up the chunks of lung and heart and liver you’ve been needlessly holding on to. She’ll love you more the more you do. She’ll wear it proud like warpaint as a testament to her conquest. Smear her face. Give her all you got. She’ll take it all. All you can muster, big boy. She’ll take it right the fuck out of you. And laugh all the way through.



Force it

take it all you can take it go ahead and give it go a you never know until you try

force it

why not make it work just fucking fake it through your not so subtle lies


brute blunt trauma make it black and bruised hammered down



Hungry Ghosts PT. 2



The hood of a dated limousine. The Driver sits in the front seat. The CAMERA tracks through the scene in a single shot as The Driver SPEAKS directly to us.


Denizens. Out of time. Out of sync. No present. Past pain and future fixes. Starving for their tar or their gash or their scars. Hungry needy little ghosts. Barely alive. Punished with an insatiable hunger. Vile. Repugnant. Humiliating. I’ve seen them inject rotting flesh and human feces. Greedy. Selfish. Impious. Oroborus of filth. They eat from the inside out. Sometimes they keep them alive to siphon, a parasitic life support. They have tiny, little pinhole mouths, not bigger then your pinkie. But their stomachs? They’re the size of mountains. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen them eat their own shit, over and over again. They don’t even realize it. They’re always-

BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! The Beggar bangs on the driver side window, interrupting the monologue. The Driver slams the door open and knocks The Beggar on the ground.

Camera continues to TRACK, moving away from the action.

The Driver picks the beggar up and throws him on the hood of the limo. We can longer SEE the action as the camera drifts off in the night. All we hear are MOANS and GRUNTS.


12-12-2014 8:43 AM

Dear Johnny,

There may be a small misunderstanding here. You’re going to have to work with me, ok? Listen, I don’t normally reach out to people like this, but quite honestly I’m in a bit of a bind.

As Mr. Daniels noted in song, I was behind on souls. My P&L numbers have been all over the place, and none of it good. My soul acquisition rate (SAR) is down 12% YoY and I’m just reeling and scrambling to recover. I don’t even want to go in to my Soul Churn and long-term attenuation rates. It’s just miserable. You have to understand, I’m working with literally a THIRD of what the big agency is, field rep wise. Again, I’m just being candid with you, but my bonus is going to be *greatly* impacted if I don’t get my numbers up.

Long story short (or long story still long- lol! sorry, but if you can’t laugh at a time like this when can you?) I’m going to need that fiddle back. I’ve analyzed my mistakes and realized challenging the best fiddle player in the world to a fiddle contest was not a great idea. I take ownership of that error and have learned from it.There’s probably, man, a thousand other guys I could have beaten? Guys that would have taken the bet. Just a bunch of souls I could have really used. I mean really- you have no idea how weighted the commission structure is towards *new* soul reaping. It’s crazy. It’s like 6% of my TOTAL gross income for the year tied up in the one number. So I’d like to offer you a trade. I’d gladly provide you with your pick of the following: the ruby, the topaz and the diamond; the beryl, the onyx and the jasper; the lapis lazuli, the turquoise and the emerald. Seriously, take any of them. They’re all really gorgeous and I can guarantee will appraise at much higher value than the fiddle.

Hey buddy, thanks a lot and get back to me as soon as you can,



12-22-2014 8:02 AM ONE ATTACH: 1DSFEDEX.PDF


I take your lack of a reply as a rejection of my offer.

I really hate to do this because its so… just… unprofessional. But.

We’ve both neglected to mention that I’m the FUCKING PRINCE OF LIES.


(I need that fiddle back *ASAP*. I’ve attached a pre-paid overnight FEDEX label for your convenience)


(Just for clarity, all you have to do is affix the label to a box- it’s self-adhesive so you just peel it off. Any old box will do, really, the thing is pretty heavy and durable. it’s actually costing me an arm and a hoof to ship but biz is biz, knowwhatimean? ;)



(dangit. I just checked Kayak and it’s like *super* expensive to fly this time of year. I’ll have to use my United Miles. It might be blacked out though because of the holiday..)




12-26-2014 8:14 AM <SENDTO ALL>

Hey everyone! It’s that time of year again! Just wanted to give warm wishes and good vibes to you and yours, and hope you have an awesome Christmas! (Don’t tell Him I said that rofl lollol)

Made my bonus this year so took the family to Puerto Rico for this year’s E-XMAS CARD!!


Hugz and bed bugz!


Grey in LA

The grey of wraith

Sometimes just don’t come back.


He is sitting on a recycle bin, blue and on it’s side. Fluid cycles itself in to the ground, a thick toxis of gasoline and meal remains. He hold a can of coconut milk, wretches at the sip, his internals in an egregious revolt against their given function. How did it come to this? Why is here. Why raining. Why LA?

This place is enormous. It’s forty stories, at least. Inside the rooms above the second floor they are empty as high up as he can see. He is on the first.

The hotel, it’s in some kind of renovation that has been ongoing for the last twenty five years. A stack of mattresses in plastic wrap rot in what could be the courtyard. New but forgotten. Never used and neglected. No need for a new bed if the rooms empty forever. He eats another Immodium. Chews it up. Chokes on the lactating fruit can.

In the bar. Bar? Bar. There’s music and it’s in German and there are people. The mix of people, it’s too diverse. It’s unsettling. The teenage latino couple and the late-seventies old couple and the single guy with the suit and the single guy with the hiking shoes. And they are dancing, dancing for Germany and all it’s glory. And the lights are laser tag and the sound is county fair roller coaster and it’s too much.

The room isn’t the worst he’s been in. The heat blows cold air. The windowed door to the balcony does not close all the way, does not lock. The balcony. Balcony? No, windowed doors to iron bars because some time for some reason it made sense to be able to walk out on to something. Now there’s an alley and a dumpster. And now there is the constant howl of cold air through the crack in the best laid plans of architects and men.

The pillows are so firm the fist of God himself stuffed them. The blanket is pillowy soft and the sensation of the possibility of purgatory is not lost on him. A vending machine toothpaste. A shower so hot and powerful the day is almost blasted away. A long look at the bags and the red eyes that are the only thing that confesses his hard days.

Fucking LA.


Hungry Ghosts Pt. 1


Cracked asphalt. Empty street. Light rain. Broken bottle.
Rusted shopping cart. The downtown of this city is cold and
desolate. Life always feels just out of reach.

The SOUND of wind carries through the streets.

We continue to see this urban imagery as a faceless narrator
ruminates on the land.

Some people. Some things. This
place, it’s not real. It’s concrete
but it’s not concrete. It’s…
nothing. It’s vapor. It shifts and
contorts and bends with the sharp
shards of air. The spaces and
places and smiles you think you
know? They don’t exist. Not really.
You can touch and taste and make
them bleed. But they don’t exist.
They don’t do anything but placate
need. They’re wind. A temporary
fix. All is mist. A land of wind. A
land of gust. A land of vacancies.
Structures and stone if only for
show. Purposeless long forgotten
and abandoned. Wind traipsing
through ruins. Ruined.


WIDE SHOT: A MAN in the back of a limo pulls his jacket over
his neck. His breath is visible. CUT TO a CU of his face. We
PUSH in.

WIDE SHOT: A WOMAN, severely disfigured, lays against a
closed shop door. CUT TO a CU of her face. We PUSH in.

WIDE SHOT: A DRIVER sits against the front wheel of a car
wiping blood away from his nose. CUT TO a CU of his face. We
PUSH in.

WIDE SHOT: A BEGGAR watches invisible cars pass by. CUT TO a

CU of his face. We PUSH in.
These CLOSE-UPs repeat faster and faster, until they blur
into one.


We see a hotel room. Just, brown and ruffled folds of curtains and blankets. The blinds are drawn so that all that shines through is a yellowish blade of either sunshine or fluorescent.

A woman, young. Too young but legal too. She lies in the queen sized bed, covered by those hard canvass feeling sheets like you get in the hospital.

There’s an old TV, a CRT type, and an infomertial for a workout program loops silently.

A table. Round. An ice bucket. Two dozen pieces of half melted cubes on the floor. A wide glass, the kind your dad drank whiskey out of on the table. Half melted cubes in it.

A box of sugar cubes, six missing.

A book of matches, six missing.

He picks up the glass, sticks in a finger and pulls out a gold object. He pours the cubes on the floor with the rest.

The sweet piccolo sound of fresh cubes in to the glass. Four, the six. He takes the gold shiny thing and carefully pushes a sugar cube in to it with the reverence of the Body of Christ. His moves methodical, like the holy sacrament.

The other hand, it holds an ice sliver between the index and thumb, always there, always numb. With those two he takes up the sugar filled ring, lights a match with the book between the same ands ring and middle, and holds it under the sugar, over the glass.

The slow drip of sweet. The slow sensation of feeling back in the fingers. The match is spent and he pours from a too tall green bottle.

He drops in the ring.

A sip of the blood of martian Christ.

And another.

White boxers and black socks and grey morals

The woman rolls over in bed, eyes squinted in the way the sun doesn’t do.

WOMAN: Who are you talking to?

We see another sitting across the table from him. Palms down on the table, a look like you look at the Zoo tiger when he’s sleeping right up against the glass.

OTHER MAN: No one baby. Go back to sleep.

MAN: We’re not built for this. It defies Darwin. It smothers progress.

OTHER MAN: Progress. Progress towards what?

MAN: The species. (Laughs). Evolution.

OTHER: Things no longer of worry.

He finishes his drink.

Another slow, methodical preparation of the blood. Just like before.

MAN: Do you love her?

OTHER: Yes. Do you?

MAN: I want to. Now.

The woman stands, wobbled, only in thin thong panties. With he back to us she walks to the sink and runs water. The water runs, untouched, and she is lost in her reflection.

She is silhouette but for the knife edge of yellow light, bisecting her, right down the spine.

MAN: She loves me.

OTHER: That’s enough.

We hear the shower stop. A door opens and another comes out, still wet. Her hair sticks to her bare breasts. His mermaid.

She gently caresses the spine blade, gives a gentle kiss on the back of the neck.

Puts on emerald panties that match the other’s eye shadow.

Takes out a little oval.

Crushes it on the tv stand. On a book. The one from the drawer beside the bed. With a hotel key card she surgically aligns the powder. An apothecary. A spell.

A perfect edge of blue now, into her nose, through a rolled up coupon for a free drink at the casino bar. Maximum value: six dollars.

She sits on the floor, back to the bed, infomertial reflecting off her face.

MAN: That’s enough.

The sink water overflows into the top drain. Now a washcloth with a tiny smear turns the water basin pink.

She lays back down, her head at the foot of the bed her dyed red hair creeps into the other’s dyed blonde.

The OTHER MAN moves over to the woman on the bed. He lays his hand gently on her torso.

MAN sips.

Prepares another.

MAN: Could be.

We pan up to the curtain, and move through the crack. Outside is irradiated, yellow, destroyed.

Just destroyed.


pooled up


يسوع الشخصي


I will deliver
You know I’m a forgiver

I’m standing on a corner in Bethlehem. The real, holy land one, not the one in Pennsylvania. I’m with my hetero life and creative partner Nick and our wonderful camera magician Oscar. My traveling companions are Hispanic. This matters only in that they look similar to everyone except me. As a flow of two hundred people per minute rushes by me, I am the only Anglo we will see today. We are in the marketplace, and we don’t know why. Four days ago we were in this same market place and it poured rain so hard the sewers backed up, we got very lost and very wet, and I was 90% sure I hated all of Israel.

So today we decided to try again. The film we are shooting, it’s an off day. So we got falafel. We went to “Star & Bucks” coffee shop. No one spoke a dick of English, but somehow the absurd good nature of these people powered through, and the little man- wait- (everyone here is little and dresses very, very nicely. Even the guys with the super hip partial Mohawks whose day consists of standing around on an island in the middle of traffic group smoking chain smoking, they look sharp.) So the little man, this particular little man, he figures out I want coffee and ice cream. Me being a pale frost giant probably tipped him off.

I really was not prepared for what came next. Listen. If you’ve had moments of great inspiration and faith, if you have been filled with energy and spirit that you know to be greater than yourself and connects you to the universe, then you know what I am talking about and no explanation is needed. Imagine a few shots of espresso and a Butterfinger and a pint of chocolate gelato and some of the liquid concentration of pure love was made in to a coffee drink. That’s what I had. This day was shaping up to be pretty excellent. The sun was out, girls with gorgeous eyes and ninja masks on smiled with their lashes and the people radiated a genuine good will. But it had not yet become matching track suit excellent. That’s the kind of shit that takes excellent and makes it divine.


Lost 40 pounds… this month.


I lost 40 pounds this month. That’s right. You read that right motherfuckers. 40 pounds in 30 days. I have before and after pictures and daily workout and calorie trackers but just fuck you believe me.

12% body fat and 40 pounds lost. 30 days. 266->226.

Disclaimer: im no health expert and this shit is probably crazy dangerous for you, but fuck you it works.

First and foremost having a really shifty self-loathing attitude helps. Nothing about this article is sarcasm. Just so you keep up.

To be honest, you probably can’t do what I can do. You’re too weak.

Lose weight like you fucking mean it. Like you’re a goddamned Viet Kong prisoner. Like John Mccain.

I’m not pushing fad diet or trying to sell you anything or saying what I did is good for you. But if you’re a fat fuck and want to not be, shut the fuck up and listen to me. One on one coaching available, you fat sloppy unfocused piece of shit.

Discipline – yea its ducking bold and italics. LEARN IT,


There is always an excuse if you look for it.

fuck your excuses

Stop eating shit

Ride a bike

Stop making excuses


Stop eating shit

Get some fucking control

Last month I average 644 calories a day intake and 1900 calories burned.,


No cheat days

No cheat minutes

Stop jerking off- once a week at max

The end of food as enjoyment

Eat less

If it tastes good stay the fuck away from it- no meat, suigar. Anything.

Learn to love being alone doing cardio for hours

Work out constantly- 4 hours of cardio- camel cardio

Mental toughness, tell your brain to shut up

stop giving a fuck about anything but being in shape kind of like sobriety and AA

Every day cardio

Never eat unless you’re starving

Eat only supplements otherwise

Take 80 Supplements- partial list at bottom

Drink 3 gallons of water

No meat, sugar, anything

Actually just muscle monsters. If your’re hungry drink a monster

Take prescription drugs. Whatever you can get your hands on.

Hate yourself

Love yourself

Lift stupid repetitive low weights every single day


Listen to radio shitty it pisses you off

Stay up all night then just go work out at 8 am

Sleep 5 hours a night

Stretch., a LOT

Be. Mentally. Tough

Discipline you fat fuck

Be accountable for yourself you fat disgusting mess



List of things I take every day, several twice a day: generally 1.5 times whatever the recommended dose it:


Gakic hardcore

Krill oil


green tea extract



Muscletech t booster



Milk thistle



Estrogen blocker



Beta-alanineartichoke extract

Diablo weigh loss pills


Licorice extrace




So. If you want to lost a fuck-ton of weight. Do that. Let me know and I’ll help you, you lazy fat piece of shit 



I am part of this great nation

Gear Lis1 the pdf

Here’s a lovely little Ebook on  gun ownership and American gun owners and because fuck us, that’s why!

word doc if you please please:

wp f

naivety and wisdom

shyness and pride

awkward grace

her sweet innocent smile

contrasts the eyes of many lives

and her slim taunt frame

gorgeous and sublime

is just the exterior

of a depth

and beauty

impossible to explain



Here’s what I do when I’m not writing bullshit

Let’s do something interesting together.
Emmy Award Winner. National Addy. Six National Tellys.

Writer – Producer – Creative Power Plant.
NBA. Adidas. BMW . Pepsi. NFL. Nike.
Trainer – Motivator- Performer.
Microsoft. Blackberry. Verizon.
Events of thousands. Thousands of events.
Actor – Tech – Improviser
Hundreds of improve comedy show. Host. Motivator.
Blue Man Group. Cirque Du Soleil. The Improv.
Film and Television – Commercial – Strange fiction.
Actor – Writer – Director
The Second City Conservatory
The University of Arizona
The Annoyance


The violent spew and flow of vitriol and hurtful words like lava. The ejaculate of volcano, inferno hot, destroying all in slow, creeping wraith. Moan and desperate cries for help insignificant. Until its done. Then just a hard cold black trail of coal and sadness. A solid mass of regret. Please let me build on this rocky frozen death something sturdy

Zen, USA

I am the American Buddhist. I am Zen. I am apathy. I am empty. I have no attachment to anything. I am nothing. Your religion. Your politics. Your sex and race and taste. I don’t care. I am not angry. Not offended. Not perturbed. I simply do not care.

I don’t matter. But even more so, neither do you.

Through my insurmountable apathy I have found my inner peace: Pieced together from the burnt torn out pages of bibles and senate bills and protest billboards, I took on the blackened dead fragments with no scripture left. This is my doctrine, my manifesto. An empty coal dark sheet of absolutely not giving a fuck.

I have been assaulted and inundated and intoxicated by your morals and ideas and ideals for three decades and the result is not a sense of pride or motivation. Not one of spite or rebellion. My reaction is numb. Is none.

Now all is a transient radiation of love. And I find peace, and I find joy and I live in every moment and I have no collar and no stone, no cross burden of anything. I am nothing but a vacuum space and violently wielded ambivalence. And I am happy. And I am free.


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