Wednesday, October 14, 2009

Hollywood Dreaming

Had a dream a couple of nights ago, and thought it was worth putting on "paper". As dreams go, it's awfully transparent. My brain was being especially shallow that night.

First, a little background. I write comics for a living (still inking some, but I consider myself a writer first these days). In the course of writing graphic novels, and trying to make some kind of a living at it, I have brushed against Hollywood from time to time. Like when a beautiful woman touches your shoulder as she moves past... nice enough, but it fades quickly and leaves you with nothing.

I guess I shouldn't say my Hollywood experiences have left me with nothing. For the most part, though, the check is still in the mail.

So, on to the dream:

I'm in Hollywood. I assume I'm there to work with some collaborators out there on a graphic novel and/or film project. Something very much like when I went out a year ago to work on the Ciudad outline with the Russo brothers.

I've been invited to a party being held by some moderately successful starlet. Not Tara Reid, but someone along those lines. Her estate is way bigger and grander than it should be for her perceived level of success. I'm hanging out in the backyard, which goes on forever. There are pretty, shiny Hollywood types all around, but I am hanging by myself. I assume I'm my usual charming self. and I'm sporting a nice enough summer fedora, but I still feel out of place... unbelievable!

I wander over to the pool. Pools, I should say. There are at least two, one of which is ridiculously large. The whole pool area glows a beautiful Maxfield Parrish blue.

I leave the pool and settle next to a decorative boulder. I don't seem to have a cocktail. Bad omen there.

Finally, someone comes over to talk to me. It's a young lady. She's been lured over by the hat, I'm sure. She asks me with just a trace of pity if I'd like to join her and a group of other revelers in the video game room.

The game room is, like the rest of the place, over the top. It's a pretty small room, packed with consoles and joysticks. The walls are completely lined with monitors. There must be two hundred of them.

I know nothing about the game these people are about to play. Still, I've been invited, and I don't want to blow what appears to be the only chance I'm going to have this evening to not be the lonely, creepy dude in the corner.

As the dozen or so beautiful people in the room prepare to begin their tournament, I suddenly realize that I'm holding a bag of some kind. Don't know where it came from or what's in it, but it's there and I have to get rid of it so I can attempt to play this game and become accepted and beautiful myself.

I walk over to the door, where there is an almost bare spot on the floor. Almost bare. There is some kind of electronic box with a switch there, but I toss the bag down anyway. It bumps the switch, and all the games and monitors in the room flick off.

Amidst the general dismay and bitching, someone offers that they probably caused the outage. To my credit, I don't allow them to take the rap. I announce to the room that it was my fault.

I wake up.

Saturday, October 3, 2009

50 Word Noir

My entry for www.dailylit.com's 50 word noir contest.

A Splash on the Widewalk

Wet pavement. Ceiling fans. Shot glasses. Dangerous broads walking into your office at the end of the week.

All bullshit.

It's nothing but tedium, shadows, unpleasant smells.

Grease, sweat, coffee, desperation.

Sometimes, like tonight, it ends with the sharp tang of blood.

Horrific. I vomit out the window. And wait.