Whirlpool

Today is the first day of near-recovery from my annual post-Thanksgiving headcold. I am not totally up to capacity, but I am making progress. I can stare at this screen without going all woozy headed. It's a step. I was out of commission for about a week - your standard cold duration - though combined with being housebound in my parents' New Jersey domecile for the holidays, I have pretty much gone stir crazy from half a month of solitary confinement.

Yesterday offered a little respite as I had to escort my girlfriend out to windswept San Bernedino to reclaim her towed/stolen/recovered Mitsubishi Eclipse. The whole day was a comedy of errors that was only compounded by my air-headed remove thanks to five straight days of glugging cough supressant. Anyway, it was an adventure for me considering the farthest I had traveled since coming back from Jersey was the mailbox. And let me just say that there is a golden throne in heaven awaiting Mr. Guy Who Invented Netflix.

SPEAKING OF MOVIES...

Tomorrow I am scheduled to head up to Santa Barbara to infect my writing partner's children with whatever strain of the croup I have... and go over our script one last time before she takes an extended whack at it. The general plan for my life right now is a) get better; b) let her do the hard work on the script long enough for me to finish Air Conditioned Jungle; c) stave off despair vis a vis unemployment, poverty, having wasted 10 years of my life, having a career in the shitter and an impending midlife crisis (ten years early); and d) finish fucking Air Conditioned Jungle*.

That's what will be on my tombstone. Finish (obscenity omitted) Air Conditioned Jungle.

Right. So. They passed on the show at VH1. And, you know, I guess it's not the worst thing ever. I truly would have loved working on it, and I certainly could have used the money, but maybe this will free me up to really *FFACJ. Who needs money? You can't be a starving artist if you got loads of money, right?

Jesus, I'm a starving artist. I'm a two bit cliche. A Hollywood cliche at that. Oh well, there's always '06!