"...the old adapter sparked and popped like Tookie Williams shoring up a governor's conservative base"..."
The Adapter's Back!, Dec 12, 2005
The new adapter came! The new adapter came! And the Powerbook is back on, bitches.
Uh huh.
Last week, the old adapter sparked and popped like Tookie Williams shoring up a governor's conservative base. I searched online for the lowest priced accessories as life drained from the battery. Thirty seven dollars, ten days to deliver.
Ten days? Is this compassionate conservatism? I'm not impressed.
Membership in the Writer's Guild rocks. I attend free movie screenings, I open my mailbox and find shooting scripts for
Jarhead and
Cinderella Man, plus DVDs of movies that were just in the theater. And health insurance. The kind where you make an appointment and show up. No referral, no co-pay.
I've been trying to get another writing job. One job I thought I wasn't perfect for agreed, and another job that I salivated for asked me to wipe off my mouth and lose its number. A few smaller shows haven't said yes or no yet. And I have other feelers out.
I dunno.
I like writing comedy for tv. But Jesus, Mary, Mother of God, it's a miracle when anything funny happens on televison. A miracle, I tell you.
Curb Your Enthusiasm,
Ali G and
The Office are literally acts of God and you should praise your creator for their existence because the road between a pitch and its execution is an Appian Way lined with crucifixtions. The only pure comedy is standup, and even that gets polluted during a check drop.
Last week, El Fiancee found a lump in my breast during his hourly exam. Ninety percent of me was afraid to die, and the other ten was elated.
"Free at last, free at last! Thank God almighty, I am free at last!"
I flashed my Guild card at the gyno and was carried by ten vestal virgins to an exam table. The doctor squeezed and smashed and told me the lump was more than likely a fatty deposit and not to worry, but I could get a sono/mammo if it would make me feel better.
It would and I will.
Sometimes I want out. Please, take me to the next level, oh Maker of
Arrested Development. Any existence where the mom's back doesn't hurt, the boyfriend doesn't miss his son and the dad can lead the good life- which is walking his dogs all day long.
Elaine G. Beczkowski was 41 when she died, and she owned a used book I bought from Amazon.
The Elements of Style for Screenwriters. Her memorial card was pasted in my book. She loved literature and her ashes were spread on Lone Mountain in Montana. I imagine Elaine Beczkowski wanted to write a successful screenplay so she could take care of the very loved one who put this pretty card into all of her old books.
