Posts Tagged ‘Photos’

So, I’m been meditating on/contemplating slowly and casually researching a more long term project in a different medium. As with many of my projects these days, some of it has to do with Chicago. A city, presence, and history that looms rather large in my mind the further and further I travel from it. I would love to infuse more Los Angeles into my work. I absolutely love the feel and rhythm of the city. But, for now, Chicago holds court for the most part. It gets the podium when it wants. Lots hours and miles and years traveled there. So there’s raw material aplenty and much of it is too beguiling to just ignore. As I’ve started to do more and more, in the early stages of research and circling something in my head, I tend to collect photos.

I’ve discussed how much I absolutely love and am drawn to the still photograph. How it represents a diving board for my imagination, one rooted in reality. A hair trigger to a story or a scene or an emotion that often spins into something else. So, today, rather than do some work or read, as I told myself I would do on what is probably my last day of vacation in a long, long time, I instead meander through the stacks and stacks of photo streams on Flickr, searching for images of Wicker Park, the neighborhood I lived in for nearly fifteen years in Chicago. Wicker Park has its history and I won’t quite get into here, yet. I’m sure I’ll wade into that hot button topic (in the years that I lived there, Wicker Park became ground zero/an international case study for the effects, both positive and negative, of Urban Gentrification) at some point when I do begin work on this project. (To be clear, it’s not a TV or Film project, so it’s clock is strictly my clock, so who knows when exactly that will be.) Simply what I mean to say before I roll out the photos is that in seeing these streets, where I not only lived, but also worked for so long. Spending my time locked up in this one stretch of Chicago, maybe one half of a square mile at best, twenty-four seven, at all hours of the day and night. That I’m struck by the grittiness of Chicago, compared with Los Angeles. That’s not to say L.A. doesn’t have it’s truly rough parts. Maybe it’s the constant sun, or the way the landscape breaks – whatever it is, L.A. doesn’t strike me as so compact and constructed and old. It doesn’t have the same rawness I see in these photos. Anyways. Here is Wicker Park, circa early 21st Century, about three years past the apex of the gentrification battle.

That's the Six Corners, formed by the intersection of Milwaukee, North, and Damen Ave. It's the heart of Westown, which is Wicker Park, Bucktown, and the Ukrainian Village. The road, North Ave, on the left, is a border between Bucktown and Wicker Park. I lived and worked within two-three blocks of this intersection for nearly a decade. That's downtown in the distance behind the Flat Iron Building.

The Coyote Building which is where the previous picture was taken from. The neighborhood's internationally acclaimed art walk takes its name from this building. The art walk is simply known as "Around The Coyote."

This is taken of the corners from the Flat Iron building. It also captures the Chicago, I recall most - overcast, rainy.

The main alleyway, off of Damen Ave. I can tell this is taken right at the mouth of the alley, which means if you look at the previous photo and locate the North Community Bank sign, next to the Blue Line El Platform, the photographer was just around the corner from there, a quarter of a block. I lived in an apartment that was two buildings down on the right and another one that was five buildings down on the left.

The Damen Ave El stop, which I lived several doors down, right across the park when I first moved to the neighborhood. Three stops and you're in the Loop. This is directly opposite the mouth of the alley in the photo above.

Outside the Double Door, a rock club next to the mouth of the alley. The Rolling Stones played here. Among many other big, small, unknown and friends bands. It's called Double Door because it has this door on Damen and another door on Milwaukee, just around the corner. That's big June, the longtime doorman. Whenever he was working I had an all-access pass. I used to raid there ice machine when ours down the street at Nick's would break down in the summer.

Some folks hanging on Milwaukee Ave, a couple of doors down from the corners. Looks like just outside Earwax Cafe.

This is inside Earwax Cafe. I knew Nick the own, through my fellow Wicker Park Ex-Pat, Brett. Earwax started out as a used CD/eclectic video rental/cafe/hangout spot. Fifteen years later is would evolve into an eclectic cafe with a progressive menu written up favorably in the NY TImes Sunday Section. Which was pretty cool to see.

Night time in the six corners. There are somewhere, or were, in the order of fifty or so bars, taverns, clubs, and dives - some of which saty open until 2 a.m., others until 4 a.m. in a fifteen block radius (if that) around the corners. This looks like an early week night. Pretty slow. I worked right in the heart of this for most of my doorman/bartending career.

Heilman Cold Beer signs. They're all over the place. Along with Pabst. Many, because of the Polish Heritage of the neighborhood, don't say "Cold Beer" they say "Zimne Piwo" which is cold beer in polish. Don't let the door hit you in the dupa on the way out!

The Pontiac Cafe, after my time there, which was the most infamous of bars and dives that I tended bar at. This is also the bar where I had my last drink. Served by Johnny Angel, who also got me sober. How do you like that for irony? In my time, we didn't have that plank/boundary thing - that was city mandated after it was discovered Buddy, the owner, didn't have the proper permits for it. in my day anything that was concrete was patio, so the patio was twice that area. Man, this place....It still defies words (not in a good way.) It's closed now. Which is as it should be. This is one building over, and on the other side of the El Tracks, from the Double Door picture above

Inside the Pontiac Cafe, at the corner of the bar, which was the place that you wanted to be. Guess who is standing, just to the left here? That's right. That's me. Beardless. Looking sharp. Must've been on my way out to dinner or something. It's almost ten years ago. I've definitely stopped drinking and all that, based on the people around me. I'm talking to Gina Black of The Blacks, a country-punk band and a Pontiac waitress. Crazy isn't it? I found this photo by accident on Flickr. I was startled to notice myself standing there. Seems like forever and a day.

I think last night’s brief entry on frustration got away from me! I didn’t mean to imply that I would quit the blog. And I know there are a good many readers out there, checking in week to week. I had hoped to inspire any questions that some may have, that I hadn’t gotten to in my unplanned ramblings, which might give me a track to rumble down for a bit, content-wise.

There is one just asked that’s rather timely (thanks, Colin!) as I was asked the same question at Jacob’s birthday get together in the park this past Sunday and I got caught flat footed by it. Even though it’s something I’ve considered internally in my thoughts. As Sunday demonstrated, though, I’ve never articulated my thoughts regarding it. We’ll delve into more of that tomorrow – as I’m going to try to switch gears a bit to more of a daytime posting ritual as part of my work routine.

Anyone see the Time magazine article on Jonathan Franzen, writer of The Corrections. Grew up in Webster Groves, a suburb of St. Louis. The same suburb where we once lived and I was born. Anyways, in the article there is a brief paragraph on his writing space and equipment, along with a picture. It’s quite fascinating. To sum up: It’s a small, ancient looking industrial office computer cart type desk  with a hard backed chair against a blank white wall. The only thing on the desk is a rather clunky early Dell laptop and THAT’S IT!  Yes, there is no one scrap of paper. Not one picture. Not one knicknack in the whole darn space. Desk, wall, chair, dinosaur computer. I didn’t even see a lamp. Very impressive.

More importantly, and something that I hope to do one day, is remove all ability to access the internet from the machine and remove all time wasting games, etc.. from the software files. Apparently, Franzen customized the machine – going all the way down to the programming language to eradicate games from the hard drive, removing the wireless card physically from the computer, and then taking an ethernet cable – pouring superglue in the ethernet port on the laptop – jamming the cable in and whacking off the permanently attached head from the rest of the cable. Amazing! I love it. I’ve always pined for a computer to work on that’s completely and utterly free of the internet and any other distractions.

Also, as a side note to the writers who are reading this, it took Jonathan Franzen ten years to produce Freedom (at 562 pages.) But, as he talks about it in the article, the first seven or eight produced NOTHING usable. He wrote, but kept throwing stuff away, heading down this blind alley, then that one. Finally, after all this time, he had six pages of a female character. It was the first set of pages he didn’t throw away in almost a decade. From there, he cranked out the first draft in ONE YEAR! Probably rewrote it over the course of another.

Lessons from this:

-Every story told is an excavation.

-Character is the light that cuts best through the dark of uncertainty.

-Plot follows Character, not the other way around.

More tomorrow. I leave you with a few photos (because I haven’t done that in a bit) that I found through Google Reader where I track many different news sources on the net. One folder is dedicated to photoblogs. I love the simplicity of a picture a day. Here are two, of a set, that I find captivating and haunting in the most beautiful way possible. Without further rambling:

Dawn On A City Street In Toronto

A Few Minutes Later

I will say this about the photos: I was drawn to them specifically from the many years I worked until dawn at a Four A.M. bar called Nick’s Beer Garden. I lived several blocks away, basically around the corner. There is something strange, beautiful, and beyond peaceful about a city right as the darkness breaks and morning spills in. All the windows dark and the doors shut on the last moment of stillness. My feet on the sidewalk pavement. The Tribune truck dropping fresh stacks in the boxes on the corner. Everything about to happen, not quite yet, but soon.

Took the day, blissfully, off. There will be more than enough to do in the weeks ahead. I know it’s been light posting, but, well, you know it’s been a rather unique week that’s taken me a little bit away from the day to day routines.

As promised, here are the photos that I have of graduation:

On the outside are Cynthia and JJ from the writing group and my friend Megan is next to me. Those two sweet looking blondes are two of the raunchiest comedy writers you will meet. That's including all the comedy writer's I came to know at Second City. Material that, while hilarious, would make a hardened sailor blush and gasp.

Taken by my Dad, who shows a hidden talent for frame composition most directors would kill for.

For the record!

Meanwhile, waiting for the call to line-up I was capturing the moment with my iphone:

JJ. again, and friend Jason Molloy on the left.

The Playwrights! There are only three per year, so they tend to hang with the Screenwriters or MFA Actors. Jacob Bursten-Stern on the left and Adam Simon on the right. Jacob is the playwright I'll be relocating to a more affordable living situation with, and Adam's from Chicago. So they're good guys.

Good Lord, what have I done now?!?!?!

JJ, on the left, and Jason, on the right, just chillin'.

JJ, Jason and Cynthia. Three/Fifths of the 431.

The 431 (a.k.a. the writing group.) From L to R: Me, Cynthia, JJ, Ed, and Jason.

My friend Meghan, looking thoughtful

Then back to the event, and my Dad’s photos. Which are, in my opinion, much better than mine. (Good Job, Dad!)

The approach. As the saying goes: "There is no turning back now." That's my writing partner behind me with his hands raised to his family, who were the best cheering section by far on the day, in terms of volume and dedication. Well done Latshaws!

Moments from donning the mantel "Master of Fine Art."

There we are, waiting to be called up.

Crossing to shake Dean Terri Schwartz's (Producer, Sister Act) hand after being called.

Descending the fabled stairs at Dickson Court, a newly conferred M.F.A.

Stunned, elated, and exhausted, searching for my seat. Wondering, already, if I should get my M.F.A. in Playwriting to deter the inevitable.

The Graduate with his Father and Mother. Not sure about that look on my face. Shock, possibly?

There you have it! Enjoy.

Thanks for listening to me vent yesterday. I always appreciate the ear.

One thing that pops up in the experience is just how much, yet again, there’s such an obvious benefit to having a writing partner, or at the very least a tight knit community to plug into after an experience. So much of this business are moments like last night, or better versions of them. You would think it’s all writing, at home alone. Sadly, not true. Most of the time it is all about the strange, and always emotionally taxing dance of development that must happen before anything else does; well, that as well as endless, frustrating days – no, weeks – of waiting. If I were on my own and had no one to bounce these experiences off of, it would take days, and far too much emotional energy, to work through them on my own. Sure, it’s possible. But I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. Seriously.

Okay, enough shop talk. Tomorrow, my dear friends Brett and Jennifer are leaving for a surprise Paris trip to celebrate their tenth wedding anniversary. Mazeltov, both of you. Have the trip of your lives. Thank God Brett came looking for me at the Pontiac all those years ago! It’s wonderful to see one small, seemingly inconsequential event, in concert with a fantastic orchestra of events big and small, blossom into the beautiful family you have today.

That’s all I’ve got for tonight. Go hug someone you love. Let them know how special they are to you. Then do something nice for the both of you. It’s always worth it.

Oh, wait. forgot two things:

I promised a picture of Dave. He’s a tough one to take pictures of, so this is an older one from his owner. But it really captures Dave in all his Daveness. Love this dog. So easy going!

And of course, Dennis Hopper passed today. He had been, as we all knew, quite sick. Still sad, though. Here’s the post I wrote on it, awhile ago, AMERICAN RACONTEUR, if you’re so inclined.

I’ve actually been working this up for a bit. For some reason, I’ve become a bit persnickety about the photos I sometimes glean off the internet and couldn’t quite come to a resolution on ones I might want to post. But, tonight is a perfect night for it. I’m exhausted. The play is almost wrestled to ground. It’s tennish. I don’t feel like staying up late and I have a ton of work to do tomorrow and thereafter, as always. So, without further ado, a gallery of images that spark moods, characters, stories, or memories inside of me. Hopefully, they may do the same for you. (Helps if you listen to some Miles Davis or Coleman Hawkins while you look at them, just saying.)

These last two are a bit more about me and thus deserve some captions to explain:

Near Positano in Italy. This is where I will retire to write novels for my own amusement. Literally to a balcony just like this. Mark my words.

Where I will be joined by my faithful companion, Fellini, whom I will play fetch with on our long afternoon walks together along the coast and through the hills. He may have a companion, that looks just like him, named Ford. It all depends on the size of the Villa we decide upon.

Ciao!

Our beloved, St. Louis Cardinals, (“Our” as in my Dad and me), had a twenty inning tilt against the Metropolitan’s from New York (The other NY team.) The Cards lost. Which, while sad, is tempered by such an extra inning affair. Really, once you move past twelve innings, you could decide the game by coin toss and it’d be more predictable. After fifteen or so innings, things get comical, and the players have been at for five and a half hours or more. So, a certain exhaustion sets in. There are two things non-baseball fans need to know at this point. First of all, once a player comes out, he can no longer re-enter the game. There is, technically, no clock in baseball; so, theoretically, you could play forever.

Now, there’s only twenty-five guys on each roster. Nine of which are playing at the start of the game on each side, and in the course of a tight game – as extra innings always are obviously – there are many substitutions that occur for strategic purposes in the course of play. Especially when your manager is one Tony La Russa, Friend of dogs, Avowed Vegan, Lawyer, Scornful of the Press, future Hall of Fame manager of the Cardinals. Tony likes to substitute people, even when the Cardinals are clobbering another team. He does it so often, that I swear he does it just to amuse himself half the time. And I’m a big time fan of Tony, which not all St. Louis fans are. So what am I saying? Twenty-five guys, nine playing to start, close game, twenty innings? Things get a little silly by about inning sixteen.

And that’s one of the reasons I love baseball. You see, even though – nowadays more than ever – true athletes play the game, there’s still a bunch of regular guys playing it who are overweight, not really in the best shape possible, but have some talent. And in its very nature, it’s a game that brings out the kid in the players. More than any other sport, in my humble opinion, there’s – on the field – still a certain youthful innocence to the sport. Nowhere do you see that more than in a twenty inning game. So, as I did my work and listened, online, to the St. Louis radio broadcast of the game, it was a special treat to listen to the later innings.

Ultimately, for the Cardinals, two infielders had to pitch because they had run out of pitchers. Now very rarely a position player will pitch in a tight spot, or if you lose by a ton and the manager doesn’t want to send his relief pitchers out there and tire them out. This might happen once every two or three seasons, really. So, having two of them pitch in one game, was like right out of little league! Also, one pitcher for the Cardinals, Kyle Lohse had to go out and play Left Field – which I’ve never seen happen. Through the later innings, longtime Cardinals radio broadcaster, and former Cardinal, Mike Shannon would just laugh and laugh, everything had grown so ridiculous, in a sense, or fun on the field. He practically stopped calling the game. It was great.

Now, keep this in mind – that things had grown silly on the field, that the players – all of them – had been playing for five + hours, and that they have to play again tomorrow. Now look at the photos I post below, which are all from the last two or three innings of the game, innings Seventeen to Twenty.

Nineteenth Inning. Cardinals score their first run of the day to tie the game and send it, miraculously to a twentieth inning. It looks like a world series photo doesn't it?

Earlier in that same inning, Cardinal Outfielder - Ryan Ludwick, reacts to being tagged out at Second, trying to take an extra base to make something happen.

Albert, returning to the dugout, after crossing home plate. This is shortly after the first photo. Look at how thrilled everyone is - riled up, despite the marathon nature of the game. They're invested. They love it. This isn't about stats, or endorsements. It's about winning the game - just like with your buddies after school in a pick-up game.

Of course, things didn't turn out that way for the Cards.

Here's some of that silly stuff. Kyle Lohse, starting pitcher, shags a flyball in Left Field in the late innings. Not bad glove work.

Back-up (Utility infielder) Felipe Lopez, on the mound somewhere around the seventeenth inning. Felipe was dealing a 70 mph fastball with no movement and a 50 mph change-up, which was loosely referred to as a curveball. Very loosely. To give you an idea, high school pitchers routinely throw harder than that.

And a few more, not from today, but from the first year in the new Busch Stadium:

My Father and My Brother-In-Law, Dave @ Busch 3. You can see the Arch in the background there. We're all waiting out a brief rain delay.

Dave, two of his daughters/my wonderful nieces - Emily and Ellen, and my Dad as we're about to enter Busch 3 for the first time. (Don't worry. I'm wearing my cap, too)

Thanks, Dad, for making me the baseball fanatic I am, today. (Just as his Dad inspired him!) Three generations of Cardinals fans. Now that’s history!

Quick one.

- Saw Greenberg with JJ and Cheyna tonight. We always have a good time at the movies. Realized something as we settled in and the lights dimmed at Century City – I’ve really built a wonderful life here so far. I feel content in ways I never have before. I don’t really want for anything – not deep down, afraid I’ll never get it, or feeling that I’m less than I should be in some way. Sure, I’d love a little more financial stability, but who wouldn’t? That’s life. I love my friends here. Love them. They’re all such wonderful, good-hearted people. I’m fortunate, so fortunate, to have them in my life.

- Greenberg, by the way, was pretty good. Not great. The end strayed a bit and the final moments were trying, maybe, a little too hard. But, I was impressed by Mr. Ben Stiller. He showed some range and darkness, which was refreshing to see.

-How about Justified? Who’s watching? You should be! It’s an awesome show.

-Treme starts on Sunday night from the creator of The Wire, David Simon. Very curious to see how this goes. He’s tackling New Orleans, but not in the same way he did Baltimore in The Wire. This is more about post-Katrina, survival of the human spirit. Should be interesting.

- What happened to Flash Forward? Man, they just hit a wall. They were struggling and then two Showrunners later, it’s all over but the crying. To that end V has de-evolved into straight up camp, but…it’s working oddly. It’s definitely slipped into the “so bad, it’s good category.”

-I hope Jason and I turn a corner soon. I haven’t gotten into it yet, but I have serious, serious concerns as to how I will pay my rent in a mere six short weeks. That’s an issue, honestly. I should be out pounding the pavement now, but I figure, I have two weeks before I really hit the panic button. Something will sort itself out. Their are irons in the fire – multiple ones – but I’m not really leaving myself much room for error and that could be an issue.

- Yes, I’m one year older. But, more importantly, so is my Nephew,  Joe, who was born on the same day nine years ago. Pretty cool, huh? Joe and I think so.

Joe P. In Action!

Looking good, Buddy! Happy Birthday! You are almost double digits. Make sure to have some cake for me, too!

-Viva El Birdos!  Holliday is en fuego. Albert is, well, Albert. Brendan Ryan continues to roll out the best Wizard of Oz impersonation ever performed in the hole on a St. Louis baseball diamond, David Freese is holding his own on the hot corner, the starters look tough, Yadier is 100%, Skip is settling in at the Keystone (though him and Ryan better start contributing at the dish), and  The Kid (a.k.a Young Colby Rasmus) is making (Gasp!) Jimmy Hollywood and his aerial catches in Center seem like a distant memory. Hell, even Ryan Thudwick is rounding out the 2 hole with damage and slotting in at the six spot, grinding RBI’s. Things look, lovely, for this early in April. Blood Pressure is at normal levels. We’ll see about the right side of the bullpen and I refuse to speak about the Closer situation, yet.

I’m sure there’s more, but we’ll just leave it at that. Be good to yourself.

-

Summer Camp’s been on my mind the past few days. I put together a brief couple sentences, after we knock around some ideas, for a possible idea. It was centered in and around the summer camp experience. Some know this, but not all do – summer camp was an extremely formative experience for me and a huge part of my childhood and teenage years. That was at one camp in the north woods of Minnesota – Camp Foley on Whitefish Lake. It was primarily a sailing camp of all things, but also Catholic, healthy, and outdoorsy.

I think, all in all, I went to Camp Foley for seven or eight summers. At least six in all. I was there as Kitchen Staff and then Junior Counselor for two years and formed friendships that have lasted until today, even. I suppose the interesting thing, as my parents might point out, I was the one who came up with the idea and, apparently, pestered them to go – even though I didn’t know a soul there. That first year, for the two week session, I climbed on the bus at Our Lady of Grace in Edina and off I went – meeting the Mullin Brothers on the ride up, who would both become good friends all the way through college and some rather wild escapades before we drifted apart. I was all of ten years old, probably, and had no clue what I was getting into that day. We got a McDonald’s happy meal on the way up as our last “fun” lunch – after that it would be no sugar, whole wheat, and vegetables. Of course, us first timers (Charlie Mullin and I, for example) did not know this. I still recall trading my hamburger for Charlie’s fries because I was a pretty fussy eater (long story.)

There are too many memories to get into here right off the bat. It’s late and I should be in bed, also. The one thing that I keep coming back to, in my head, as I think about those blissful summer days is that right from the start I realized or was hooked into the feeling of camp as a whole other world that I could slip into alone. I was on Facebook about a week ago and stumbled on a Camp Foley alums page. On it where a wonderful collection of vintage photos – some even from my era of camp. In them, I’d see boats I sailed on or fellow campers whose faces I recall. Others were a bit older. I thought I’d post some here. The one thing I love about these random snapshots is that they all evoke, really strongly, a sun drenched summer at Camp Foley.

These are some of the counselors and junior counselors, who were also campers, when I was there. I know almost everyone in this photo.

This is the swim dock and Lake Whitefish from the bluff camp was on, probably taken near the road that divided the boys side from the girls side.

This is just a great shot of what the boys side looked like, with the trees and the cabins tucked in among them.

Yes. That's me. Middle of the back row, in the black T-Shirt. That is Cabin Kildare, the year we were all Kitchen Help. That's Andy Mullin, seated solo in front. Across the middle, L to R are Patrick Flynn, Paul Pirner and Jorge Meckelin, who later that year we would go visit in Mexico City on that trip. Behind him is George, a St. Louis boy. Anyways, we were trouble. A lot of trouble.I think we're around 15 or 16. This was probably some kind of sock hop or talent show at the end of a session.

At Foley, everyone was there to sail. That was the number one activity. So we sailed. When you got older, like 13 or 14, you could work it so that you were sailing most all of the day. There were five activity periods. You would earn badges - different ranks that would accord you different privileges - through extremely rigorous tests. I made skipper in the end, which was one step below the very top. I think it took me two years to make the journey from intermediate to Skipper. I still recall the test. It was brutal. I almost sank the boat.

These two are the Schmid Brothers, sons of the Camp Owner, Vai Schmid (God Rest Her Soul), and siblings of the current camp owner, their sister, Marie, who took over the second year I went. The Schmid Brothers were NCAA Championship sailors. He they are hiking out on one of the C-Scows, probably prepping for a Regatta.

This is from my era. I know one of the girls in this photo. Though, I can't for the life of me recall which boat this was on.

Of course we did other activities. This is a group that I think I was in. That's our Camp Kildare counselor (who we tortured relentlessly) and I think that's Pirner in the back of the closest canoe. Hard to tell. If it is, we're on our way to an camping overnight.

Love this shot. Especially the colors in it. I never liked that diving platform, though.

Another classic. This is probably from the end of camp Greek Games.

The inside of one of the cabins. This looks like Ojibway. Yes, they all had Native American names.

Not looking like a good day for sailing on Whitefish. Which was pretty unusual. It's a big lake with a lot of good wind.

Tether ball was a big sport. Their were courts all throughout camp. The Mexican kids were always way better at it than the American kids.

Love this shot for the adventuresome spirit of the action in it.

The Dining Hall, where I would work one brutal summer as an assistant cook (ever grill four hundred grilled cheese?), dishwasher, and mop the floors. Ugh. Makes my head spin just thinking about it. Hated that dishwasher. The Hobart.

Sunset over the Marina....

That was Camp Foley for me, give or take a few things. Thanks for letting me go, Mom and Dad; and thanks Charlie for trading your fries for my hamburger.

Don’t have much in the tank tonight, so this won’t be a long one. Been kind of scrambling in an odd way lately, trying to get on top of a rather large slate of things to do – writing and otherwise. This, of course, is not an atypical place to be for me. Though, currently, things feel a bit more discombobulated than usual.

I’m all wrapped up on classes for the quarter. So, if I stay the course, I’ve got ten weeks left. Yesterday was our last large lecture for the Screenwriting Fundamentals class that I’ve been a Teaching Assistant/Section Instructor for. From here on out, my students have their pages due next Wednesday. Per my offer, a few have turned in their pages early for notes, so they can rewrite them as needed. I have to say, we started off a little rocky – trying to get everyone in class squared away with enrollment and just communicating effectively – but looking at the pages so far, this group is by far the best class that I’ve had at UCLA. I’m quite proud of them. I don’t think I had a particularly good quarter teaching wise. I was pretty off, compared to the Summer quarter and last Spring. So, I’m even more surprised and pleased with their dedication to getting things right and how well they’ve done on their pages so far.

Lastly, my dear friend Tiffany, who – besides being a top flight playwright, is also an incredibly talented photographer. She kindly agreed to take some photos of yours truly. Initially, I thought maybe I’d get some headshots – just in case. I’m in Hollywood, right? You never know. But that quickly morphed to us just having fun. We went to downtown L.A. and I had fun playing model (They’ve got it tough! I was tired after!) It was a lot of fun. We might make a go of another idea, but I can’t reveal that set-up yet. Here’s my favorite of the ones I’ve seen so far. (Tiff, I hope it’s okay if I post a sneak peek!)

I don’t often see myself in photos and I like myself in those photos even less. It’s always jarring for me to see just how massive I am. I forget that, often. Every last aspect of me is pretty massive. And I don’t mean just the much discussed weight.  Ever take a look at my head? My hands? My shoulders? I’m two things – T-H-I-C-K and E-N-O-R-M-M-O-U-S. I easily dwarf just about everybody in my family. It’s the oddest thing. But, I really love this photo. This will go on all future book jackets and pressers! (Thanks Tiffany!)

A thousand words isn’t really that much, now that I stop and think about. It should be more like a million words. Either way, here are some more photos. Enjoy.

This next one is by a friend of mine, Nicci Wahlberg. This is Savannah, Georgia. (I Think)

These next couple are by an old friend of mine from Chicago, Tamara Bell, who’s a bonafide pro photojournalist.

Then back to the randoms….