the aviator

i cannot express how much i love this film.

a few things

The Newport Beach Film Festival was outrageous. Shawn, Jamie, Myles, and I showed up, and Josh met us out front. I could smell the booze on his breath already and I inquired, "How do I get on that train?" He laughed. Josh took us past the lines, groups of paparazzi, and television cameras and led us to the back. He asked for tickets to some film called "airdoll" and without hesitation he got them. I got it. He's a programmer. He gets respect. He is in his element. And it was incredible to watch.

Josh handed us the tickets, walked us past security and pushed us into the theatre. He handed me a piece of paper right before he left us to our movie and said, "Directions to the VIP afterparty at RED. Call me when you get there." I wasn't about to ask questions. Josh knew exactly what he was doing.

The film was incredible. It was a small little japanese film about a sex doll that develops a heart and starts evolving into a human being. The ideas presented in this film were staggering. Feminism, sex trafficking, what it means to be alone, love, what is the soul, it was heavy. It was shocking. It was adult. It was fantastic.

After the film I called Josh. No answer. We debated and decided to just head over to RED and see what was going on. None of us knew what we were doing, and we had no idea what we were in for.

Driving up to RED in my Champagne-colored 1994 Mercury Topaz felt like the setup to a bad SNL sketch. When I realized I was driving up to the valet, I quickly turned the car around and parked in an adjacent parking lot. There was no way I was going to embarrass my quaint little sedan by letting a guy in a suit park it next to the twenty Lexus and Mercedes sports cars out front. I didn't think my car or I could handle that.

Walking up to RED was our first introduction to the "what the hell are we doing here" mentality. Josh walked up, gave us VIP wristbands, walked us by the bouncers, and into the club.

To describe it would be futile, except to say it was the ritziest place I had ever been allowed into. As we made our way through the haze of dry ice smoke, the pounding of the house music shook my chest. I was ready for a drink, in fact, we all were.

"Drink 'em fast and make each of those fuckers a double." Those were Josh's words of wisdom. He told us they were going to run out of Absolut and Stella since they were free, so we needed to get as many as possible early on in the night. Free Absolut and Stella? That was that.

After our third or fourth drink, we were all feeling pretty loose and we were ready to take on the VIP world we had been inducted into. Sitting in the RED Room, you could smoke as you please, and that's where we set up shop. We watched Josh shmooze with fellow co-workers, directors, producers, and studio representatives. He was on his game. Us, we just smoked cigarettes and enjoyed the high life of the film festival circuit. At one point, some classy individual left their bottle of Grey Goose out in the open. We said why not, and Shawn grabbed the bottle and we went back to the dance floor, just because we could.

Josh danced with a midget, Jamie was hit on by sleezy OC gentlemen, Myles danced, and I, well I just soaked it all in. Never in my life had I been so proud of Josh, and we let him know it. He was doing something he absolutely loved, and it just happened to come with some fantastic bonuses.

We left when the free alcohol ran out, and gave Josh big, joyful hugs. For a night, we were VIPs. For a night, we were ritzed out.

GENIUS

thats all i have to say.

INSIDE Part ONE

INSIDE Part ONE

It’s 3:42 am. Shit. Waking up from that recurring dream about getting shot twice in the stomach, I still hate cops. I need to grab a glass of water; my throat is collapsing on itself. I need to clean this room; it’s near impossible to get to the fucking bathroom without stepping on a lone shoe and almost breaking an ankle. I shouldn’t drink so much. This water is magic.. I can feel it washing out the layer of alcohol coating the inside of my throat. I shouldn’t have passed out with that bottle in my hand. What would my mother think if she saw this? “Honey, you need to wear underwear when you sleep, who knows when a fire might wake you up in the middle of the night.” That’s disgusting. Fuck gin. I need a better bed frame. My back feels like those moldable Gumby toys with the wire frame, twisted around and stuck-- head and upper torso facing backwards. I hope I don’t have that stupid fucking dream again.

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“But what if you’re wrong? What if Jesus is the only way to heaven?”

“What?” I haven’t been listening to her. If I get involved in this I will hate myself, I won’t be friends with me anymore. I will cut ties with myself if I get involved in one more goddamn--

“Are you listening to me?”

“Sorry, yeah…wait. Jesus?”

“I said what if you are wrong? What if Jesus is the only salvation?”

“I dunno. I will go to hell I guess.”

“You guess?”

I don’t even believe in hell. I should just tell her that. I should be honest. I should--

“Forget it. It’s boring right? I am boring you.”

“No. No. I’m sorry.” Why am I apologizing? “You aren’t boring, it’s just that I have this discussion a lot.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“It isn’t your fault. So, what are you ordering?”

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How did I get drunk? Am I drunk? I’m drunk. What did I drink…one…three... fuck. You aren’t supposed to keep count, what did Roger say, something about if you keep count you shouldn’t be drinking, or you should be drinking. Where is Roger? I need to know. That’s going to bother me. Is that that girl from Blockbuster? I think she saw me renting Couples Retreat. Dammit. Vince Vaughn is funny, god that’s embarrassing. Where the fuck is Roger?

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“So what you are saying is that Tarantino, the master of modern cinema, would just let something like that slip through the cracks?”

“Did you just say the master of modern cinema?”

“Who else even comes close?”

“You are fucking idiotic my friend, completely delusional in your Tarantino fetish love. Paul Thomas Anderson, you fucking ass-clown.”

What is this conversation? This is my life? It boils down to arguments about completely subjective topics? How did this happen?

“Duuude. Don’t get me started on the Coen Brothers.”

Give me a car crash, water boarding, eaten by a shark. But if I die in the middle of this conversation, that will be my fucking nightmare.

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What did Andrea say last night? Something about Sartre? No. Descartes? It was interesting. Andrea always has something stimulating to contribute. I should date a smart girl. What time is it? Jeopardy is almost on. I should check and see if Clayton wants to get high. Andrea held my hand last night. She said it was a joke. She said it was her idea of dark humor. I laughed and said “good one”. Fucking “good one”. I love dark humor. So was that ironic? I am always hesitant when dealing with irony. It probably wasn’t irony. I need to remember not to wear that blue collared shirt when I see her again. I’ve been wearing it both times that I ran into her.

I do like myself. I do. I just seem to be underachieving lately. I should write something.

i want to write for the rest of my life.

today

as i was listening to the clash, i ran into this picture:

the caption was only this: "not a hipster"

the mixture of the picture, caption, and soundtrack i had playing all made sense.