"... there’s no soul in Formica."

I wanted to share one of my favorite scenes from a film script I wrote awhile back. I tried to present it here in proper script format. The blog has some display limitations so it's not perfect, but it'll do.

A portion of the film is set in 1987, and the following scene takes place after a group of friends have been up all night after driving from Orange County, Calif., to watch the sunrise in Joshua Tree National Park. Two characters sit outside a small house in a community not far from the park.

I really liked the dialogue here between Paul and Webber, and very proud of how it turned out.

Paul is a NJ transplant struggling to find his way in the world, while Webber, a transplant in his own right from Oklahoma, speaks with a slight twang and isn't afraid to preach his own brand of cowboy religion and common sense.

EXT. BACK PORCH - DAY
Paul slumps in a chair at a table with an umbrella. Webber sits down and pours a margarita for each of them.

PAUL
Where are the other two?

WEBBER
Who knows. Sleeping, I
think.

Paul knocks back a good portion of his drink and Webber fills it back up.

WEBBER
Hey sinner, what ever happened to
that lady you had back east?

PAUL
She went back to her boyfriend at
school.

WEBBER
So you were just another steer in
the herd.

PAUL
It wasn’t like that, or maybe it
was. I don’t know.

WEBBER
She ain’t with you, so something’s
up. What was she studying at
school?

PAUL
Communications or something.

WEBBER
Communications? Shit son, she’s
probably a housewife.

PAUL
No, she was studying film. She
wanted to be a movie director.

WEBBER
A movie director? Well that’s it,
right there. That’s what’s wrong --
movies, man.

PAUL
What?

WEBBER
I mean it’s so obvious. Once those
cut-up-chic flicks came out a few
years ago those mall cineplexes
popped up all over creation. Then
shazam! Then there’s this one
little theater on the other side of
town. It’s got the big marquee, the
lights, the infinity mirrors and
varnished wood. Wood man, wood’s
got soul.

Paul hasn’t a clue what Webber is getting at and shakes his head.

WEBBER
That’s what the movies used to be,
not anymore. Now it’s a wasteland.
The lights on the marquee don’t work,
the seats are torn and the wood
is black with layers and layers of varnish.
Kids today, they don’t want heroes and
dreams. They want video games,
plastic bubble gum cartoons who
spout neon lines... And everything
coated in Formica. Dang son,
there’s no soul in Formica.

PAUL
What does that have to do with
anything?

WEBBER
Don’t you see? She wasn’t real,
man. Your lady, she wasn’t from the
heart. She was just having fun. But
you took it serious. Now you’re
walking around all boo hoo, the
bitch broke my heart. Well too bad.
Wake up, get over it. Get on with
your life. Don’t sit back and watch
it go by, because one day it’ll be
too late. And that’s the worst
regret you can have. To look back
and think I should’ve done this, or
I should’ve done that. Go do it.
Don’t regret, it’ll kill ya.

PAUL
OK, chief, I’ll get right on it.

WEBBER
I’m serious dude, it killed my
pops. He had a chance to move out
here and buy an orange grove, but
he didn’t. He didn’t and it killed
him. It took 50 years, but it
killed him just the same. Don’t be
like him. Don’t die wishin’. Go
find that special lady, go see the
bullfights in Spain, or whatever...
It doesn’t matter, but don’t die
sitting around wishin’ you had.

PAUL
What if you think you’ve already
found your special lady?

WEBBER
Look, I don’t know this woman from
back east and she may have been
shootin’ from the heart, I don’t
know. That’s up for you to decide.
If you think you’ve found her then
you have, but you’re still missing
the point.

PAUL
What’s that?

WEBBER
Why are you telling me?
I ain’t your lady.

Paul finishes his drink. Webber refills both their glasses emptying the pitcher.

"Porchlight"
Buffalo Tom from their 1992 album "Let Me Come Over"

Headed Home

Headed home into the sunset, headed into the unknown. All the while the feeling of comfort surrounds me, soothing like a warm blanket on a cool evening.

Can I get to where I hope to be? Can the I-we in me find the dream I share with mothers and fathers who came before? Can we find the "home" wherever we find ourselves flaps up and wheels down?

We're on the approach, sinking in, the ground's coming up fast, but there's time. There's always time. Time enough to find our piece of the pie. Time to find the corner of the earth we call me, mine, ours. Time to take in that sun set; time to grab the sparkle in the eyes of young ones growing up too fast. Can we make it last?

Pulling up at the gate, grab my belongings and start for the door. Walking, not thinking how, but rejoicing in the path ahead. Rejoicing in the journey that... oh the taste, it is to savor.

The Fable of The Booty Jam Glitter Palace

I wrote this piece kind of as a goof awhile back when I lived in Boston. Later when I moved down to PA, I recorded my reading of it with some help from The Monkey. I added some music and before I knew it I had this quirky, funny little recording.

I created this video slide show to go along with it so I could post it to YouTube and share with all of you.

Things Change

I used to carry CDs to work in a big black binder, maybe 25 or so. Before that, I guess I had a plastic rack full of cassettes I'd leave in the car, ever careful not to let them melt in the sun. I'd use my finger or a pencil to wind the the tape back into the cassette after the player yanked it out. I had vinyl records and 8-track tapes, each with their own dilemma - scratches and dust, or tapes eaten by hungry stereos - things we don't have to deal with today.

Today's electronic world, a world so wired almost silly to even say the word "electronic." It's not needed, it's a given. Today I carry my entire music collection in a wallet-sized gizmo, about 4,000 songs worth.

Friends, are they real or just the Facebook-Twitter kind?

I used to drive about 15 miles to work and some days it took almost two hours. Before that I took the train, listened to a CD or a cassette and kept my eyes on the floor. Good to drive a car now, no longer a sardine in a traveling can. I can blast my music and put the windows down. I leave when I'm ready, not when the train stops. I park in a lot that's part of the property, there's no fee. I can listen to CDs, satellite radio or plug in my iPod.

I have the world at my fingertips at any given moment, on the computer or my Blackberry. I am in touch, in the know. I am pulling info, spitting it out, feeding my brain. Constantly learning, adjusting, twisting, wriggling around in the ethos of our information revolution spasming into the air, onto the ground, across the country, around the globe. I am plugged in, tuned up, out, in, sideways.

There is information literally going in one ear and out the other, eyes darting to and fro, fingers can barely keep up. Sometimes my elbow gets sore, sometimes my back hurts, maybe not from running, but maybe from sitting in front of the computer or the TV.

Yes we still have the TV, but now in gi-grande flat-screen skyscraper definition bursting your eyes. So real you could touch it, smell it, swim in it, eat it up. It pulsates your brain in super-duper surround aural asphyxiation, beating and burning out the speakers, more and more pouring and pumping into your head. Keep it coming, I need more. I can't get enough.

I know immediately when this one killed that one, and this one swindled the one on the other side of town and then lied to the police. The one cheated then got caught with drugs. Which one blew up that one, who tortured the children when, where and for how long. Who's got an axe to grind, nevermind I'll grind it in your skull on reality TV for the world to see.

I can see it happen live. See it happen when thousands of people screamed in an instant then doused in silence in a burning ball of fire and rage.

Rage at the U.S., rage at this, rage at that and rage at what we allegedly did to them. Rage at their mothers, rage at their fathers. Rage at no idea what for. So much rage, and enough to spread to others like a disease, eating them up, killing their insides, killing their sympathy, killing their reason. Facts twisted up, burning and spewing into a fire ball. And have their repeated acts of rage given them freedom, did it change them, did it change the world? Are they addicted to the rage now, and cannot stop? Can they stop? Can we stop them? Can we live together, can we change?

Change is one of the hardest things we humans can do. It takes great effort, change comes on the brink - the brink of desperation, sanity, pain, loss, grief and maybe the need to change itself. You have no choice, change or go under. Change or die, evolution, it's how we survive, adapt. Sink or swim, evolve or become extinct. As one movie aptly put it, it's time to "Nut up or shut up."

Maybe for some it's easy to feel down looking out over "a world on fire." Is it really on fire? Yes, parts.

I gotta glass half full, and a passport to the moon. I'm gonna fill 'er up to the rim and let 'er spill over the top, and drink it all in. Who's with me? Who's ready to begin?

Begin what? Living. Breathing, taking in a sunset, with your eyes, ears, nose and toes... ah, Man Gets Sand Between Toes, now there's a news story I can digg.

Don't tune it out, don't forget. Lean back, take a breath, and [it's your turn now]...

U2 - "Where The Streets Have No Name"