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PLASTIC MAN

The back floorboard of my car is packed with plastic water bottles. Writers all over Hollywood collect them during staffing season. Every meeting you book could lead to a job writing for a TV show. And at every meeting, someone will hand you a bottle of water, and it will end up in your back floorboard.

I've not had time to empty these sloshing bottles onto my parched plants, let alone recycle the bottles. But if there's an earthquake or alien invasion while I'm driving, I won't die of dehydration for a while.

Nor have I had time to update the blog. I wanted to write something about staffing season and how it's a big crazy game of musical chairs, but Life -- wonderful tho' 'tis -- just isn't giving me any free time right now. Turns out other writers are sounding off on their experiences over at John August's blog, and they're doing a great job of it.

In particular, I commend to your attention this piece by Daniel Thomsen:

I’ve been in LA since 2002 and every single year, the refrain is always the same: “Ugh, this is the worst year ever, no one’s getting work.” I absolutely believe people have been repeating those words since the days we were all fighting over gigs on radio dramas.

Snagging a staff job requires these things: hard work, self awareness, a killer script, a logical connection between your brand and a show that makes it on the schedule, and a fair bit of fortunate timing.

Remember that staffing is a war of attrition. You might deserve a gig this year, but if that gig falls through due to circumstances out of your control — tough shit. Stay focused on the circumstances you can control and prepare for whatever’s next — development season, cable staffing, Subway sandwich artistry, etc.

 

HAPPY SAMHAIN

This year's pumpkin: zombies from Dawn of the Dead.

Or Tea Partiers.

Whatever scares ya the mostest.

SOUL FOOD

SWEET MADNESS

Explore the cultural and political influences that help shape TV's best show: The Footnotes of Mad Men.

THE MAGIC OF MAKING

Wilco frontman Jeff Tweedy on why he writes songs:

It doesn’t hurt anybody. It’s something I love to do, and it doesn’t hurt anybody. And the world probably doesn’t need any more songs, but I need more songs. It’s satisfying and lovely to do. I feel better, and as a band—I think I can speak for everyone—we feel better making something that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. Whatever spirit there is in the universe, I think that puts you closer to it. The act of creation, you know, it’s a very powerful thing, and very gratifying. I wish it on everyone. I wish everyone could enjoy making something that wasn’t there before.

BREAKER BREAKER

Taking a much-needed vacation. Back when I'm back.

FEB. 4, 1989

20 years ago today, I quit smoking.

(Er, cigarettes, that is.)

As the late comedian Sam Kinison might have screamed: Oh, I remember the fuckin' DAAAYYYY!!!!

Let me say that I thoroughly enjoyed almost every cigarette I smoked. It made me feel good and I'm sure I looked pretty damn cool while doing it. But by 1989 I was up to a pack-and-a-half a day, pretty much lighting one in the morning and chain-smoking off that all day long. Yeah, not cool or healthy or anything positive by that stage.

If you want to quit, you can. I went cold turkey. There was a street I knew I was gonna cross that morning as I drove across town. I told myself that once I crossed that line, no more. The cigarette I was smoking and the half-pack of Winston Lights and even the lighter went right out the window. Yeah, it was littering and that sucks too, and I'm happy to say that I've never littered since.

I can still remember exhaling that last lungful of smoke. It drifted out the car window like a ghost. That was the easy part. The ensuing nicotine withdrawal just about drove me crazy: irritability, migraines, sleeplessness, etc. I was a basket case for the six or eight weeks it took for the nicotine to leave my system. Even then, the cravings continued with a force that almost broke me many times.

Here's what showed me just how deeply that monkey had dug its claws into my back. For three or four years afterward, I had lucid dreams that I was smoking, just sitting there with a cigarette, lighting it and smoking the damn thing. And enjoying it. Upon awakening, I'd be crushed with this dense concrete layer of oppressive guilt. Because of the dream's tactile clarity -- I could taste that damn smoke -- I was convinced the dream was actually a memory, something I'd done the night before. I'd berate myself for a good five or ten minutes: Damn it, how could I go all weaksauce and blow it like that? Then the reality would hit me like a scalding pot of coffee poured directly into my brain. Holy crap, that memory ... was just a damn dream. 

Quitting is one of the hardest things I ever did. There are a lot more options available now than there were back then. However you decide to quit, your mileage may vary and it may take you several tries. Just remember that nicotine is more addictive than heroin in the way it binds to your receptors.

That's right. Compared to what you're gonna go through, junkies have it easy.

Which reminds me: Over at The House Next Door, Lauren Wissot's got a terrific essay on Alex Cox's incredible 1986 bio-pic Sid & Nancy, now available in a spiffy new edition from Criterion

NERD DATE: GETTING LAID (OFF)

In my latest Nerd Date column at Fierce and Nerdy, I give you some quality tips on budget dating in these recessionary times.

For a fine example of what I'm talking about, look at these two kids in the photo. They're getting hammered in the middle of the day to save electricity. That's how you do it, people!

RECOVER, RELAX

Back when I'm back, yo. Peace.

REVEL

Hell yes it does. Happy New Year.