In grade school, he was often last to be picked at recess, but won the county youth poetry contest three years running, claiming both first and second place in his age group the last year he was eligible. Both winning poems that final year (he submitted three) focused on a chance encounter, in the backyard of his home, with a beautiful and unidentifiable bird, the bird being a metaphor for a neighbor girl, nearly twice his age, who he would often watch sunbathe from a roost in his climbing tree. More than a few parents of other young poets in the community were vocal about their disapproval of the “consistently biased” decisions of the contest’s READ MORE
You spent your hours compilingmixtapes,while interest compounded elsewherefor everyone else. When all your friendsbought new blazers,you rolled a pack of cigarettesin the sleeve of your t-shirtand then smoked them all. There are only so many of these,ours,we get to spend. And you spent yourswithout regret.
It is the eleventh hour when we we are brought in to write on the project. But the call goes well. Mutual praise is doled out. Everyone is excited - we to write on the job, the agency to see what we come up with. Oh yeah, that reminds them, they’re hoping to get our bid and treatment early in the day Thursday - less than forty-eight hours from now. That’s a very tight turnaround, but it would be a sweet reward. Glad to be in the mix, we agree to get right to work. Treatment writing commences. Ideas are born. They go to battle, build on one another, cut one another into pieces and READ MORE
I remember strolling around my neighborhood, loudly practicing what I considered to be a British accent as I walked my dog. This was West Hollywood. I’m a bald, bearded giant and my dog is an arrogant, red miniature pincher. We both happened to be wearing leather bomber jackets, ironically. I imagine we looked like a deranged, leather-bar-fantasy-version of Ren and Stimpy. “The-e-e-e-s-e… are the Norman Brothers,” I kept proclaiming. I could feel the smile, broad on my face. Kipp was gonna love this. Now, if we could only get Michael Caine to take our calls. We’d been working intensely on the “Buzz Builder Beer Project” for several weeks at that point, written dozens of scripts, READ MORE
It’s a crisp summer morning. A Friday. Our location is Lake Shore Park - nestled between Lake Michigan and the Museum of Contemporary Art in downtown Chicago. Specifically, we’re filming on a pair of tennis courts and in the small, tree canopied courtyard at the entrance to the courts. The city’s healthiest citizens run laps around the charming four lane track, many of them staring at us with curiosity each time they circumnavigate. Gear rolls in. Departments unload. The sun crests the lake in the East, and a stout old woman with short cropped white hair and tanned skin marches through the park lugging a basket of balls, a sheathed Wilson racquet and a large, READ MORE
When I arrived they were fasting. Only bread and water for seven days, they said, to purify their bodies and center their minds. Codify their spirits. They'd embarked on the journey together that morning, and I immediately felt pressure to join them. Mostly, I think they were broke, and had been partying for months, and the constant heat of the desert sun had scrambled them just a bit, collectively. They showed me where I could throw my bag, and I tossed my threadbare backpack down in the corner of someone’s room - I’m not sure whose. They offered me a glass of water, and I accepted. Someone pulled a pitcher from an otherwise empty fridge READ MORE