My Thoughts on the Season Finale of Lost aka Wherein My Readers Shout "Neeeeeeeeerrrrrd"

Warning: Given that David Fury, veteran producer/writer of Buffy and Angel, decided to leave Lost because he found out its creators really didn't have a plan (which Damon and J.J. wholeheartedly deny), these speculations could be bunk. And why yes, I really should go out more.

Hmmmm, so what did the season finale of Lost hint at? A lost civilization (the four-toed statue) hidden from view from the rest of the world (due to the electromagnetic properties) located in reality in Antartica (remember the polar bear shot in the first season? And the chess-playing Russian in the snow station dudes at the end of the finale?) Oh yeah, let's not forget the whole Dharma initiative, the hints from the Hanso Foundation about social engineering and life extension projects, and a whole lot of mysticism. And from the first season, the plane crash and the miraculous healing.

Now let's take a look at Frank Capra's 1937 movie, "Lost Horizon" based upon the novel of the same name. Plane crashes into an idyllic land located within a frozen waste (the Himilayas) and hidden from the rest of the world by magical properties. A terminally ill passenger is miraculously healed. This idyllic land, Shangri-La, is ruled by the High Lama who claims to be a hundred years old, and is supposed to be a utopia (life extension and social engineering anyone?)

Oh yeah, the idyllic land is Shangri-la, which is really a bastardization of the Tibetan Buddhist term Shambhala (also spelled Shambala or Shamballa), a mystical kingdom hidden somewhere beyond the snowpeaks of the Himilayas. From wikipedia: "Shambhala is believed to be a society where all the inhabitants are enlightened . . . Shambhala to exist as a physical place, although only individuals with the appropriate karma can reach it and experience it as such." Another Buddhist concept is Dharma. Some regard it as an ultimate and transcendent truth which is utterly beyond worldly things. There's too many references to Buddhism for the connection between Dharma and the movie "Lost Horizon" to be just coincidence.

So basically "Lost" looks to be turning to "Lost Horizon," at least for inspiration. If that's so, then the following synopsis from wikipedia of "Lost Horizon" might be helpful:

"Fleeing unrest in China, a small group of airplane passengers is hijacked by the pilot. The plane eventually runs out of fuel and crashes deep in the Himalayas, killing the abductor. The group is rescued by Chang (H.B. Warner) and taken to Shangri-la, an idyllic valley sheltered from the cold. The contented inhabitants are led by the mysterious High Lama (Jaffe).

Initially anxious to return to "civilization", most of the newcomers grow to love the place, including academic Alexander Lovett (Edward Everett Horton), swindler Henry Barnard (Thomas Mitchell), and terminally ill Gloria Stone (Isabel Jewell), who miraculously seems to be recovering. High-ranking British diplomat Robert Conway (Colman) is also enchanted, particularly when he meets Sondra (Wyatt), who has grown up in Shangri-la. However, Conway's younger brother George (John Howard) and Maria (Margo), another beautiful woman they find there, are frantic to leave.

Conway eventually learns that his arrival was no accident. He was brought there by the High Lama to take his place. The founder of Shangri-la claims to be hundreds of years old, preserved, like the other residents, by the magical properties of the paradise he has created, but is finally dying and needs someone wise and knowledgeable in the ways of the modern world to keep it safe.

George refuses to believe the Lama's fantastic story and is backed up by Maria. Torn between love and loyalty, Conway reluctantly gives in to his brother and they leave, taking Maria with them. After several days of gruelling travel, she becomes exhausted and falls face down in the snow. When they turn her over, they discover that she has died...of extreme old age. Her departure from Shangri-la had restored Maria to her true age. Horrified, George loses his sanity and jumps to his death.

Conway continues on and eventually meets up with a search party sent to find him, though the ordeal has caused him to lose his memory of Shangri-la. On the voyage back to England, he remembers everything; he tells his story and then jumps ship. The searchers track him back to the Himalayas, but are unable to follow him any further. In the final scene, Conway returns to Shangri-la, to the waiting Sondra."

So "Lost" may be in essence a retelling of "Lost Horizon" (or at least heavily inspired by it this season). Each one of the characters had been fleeing from some sort of turmoil in his/her life. The hidden civilization, the references to life extension and social engineering, Buddhist traditions, even the whole plane crash.

Of course, Abrams is notorious for f'ing it all up in the third season, so let's hope he doesn't suddenly shift the whole plot like he did with Alias.

Why Yes, I Am F!cking Bored

Legal Terms Rejected by ESPN Sports Center as Catch Phrases:

Dismissal With Prejudice!!!

He's been 12(b)6'd!!!

Collaterally Estopped!!!

He really showed him his Model Penal Code!!! (only to be used when player slam dunks over opponent's head)

Summary Judgment Denied!!!

Demurrer Sustained Without Leave to Amend!!!

Personally Served with a Subpoena Duces Tecum!!!

Thank God for Actus Reus!

He's Violating the Law Against Perpetuities!!!

Japanese Girls

Warning! The following prose has a factor of 10 on the Dennis Miller Obscurity Scale! Consider this a humble (and most likely poor) homage to British novelist M. John Harrison.

"Corruption . . . My lover is in America." -- "Japanese Girls" by Robbers on High Street

In the month of June, a low, grey mist would come off the Pacific to envelope Santa Monica. The mist wavered from being fine drops of dense moisture speckling the glasses of the near-sighted as they huddled to the sides of the Promenade to something less than fog, producing an overcast sky the color of dirty ankle socks. Whatever the outcome of the mist's indecision, it transformed Santa Monica from all gold sands, white modern beach-front houses and blue ocean to a rather gloom-filled town of muted colors and warped wood, more in line with dying lumber towns in northern California or British seaside towns they forgot to close down. The denizens of Los Angeles dubbed the mist rather appropriately and obviously as "June Gloom."

I had rushed into a Starbucks, shivering and cursing myself for failing to bring a jacket. With its faux wood paneling framing deep greens and the tang of coffee, the dark interior and the cold outside simply reinforced the feeling that I was in a dying whaling town from the nineteenth century.

Walking into these public places, I couldn't help but listen those around me--the Persian law students smelling strongly of cologne, slender and well-dressed executives buying scones, a group of Mexican nannies with their charges sleeping in their strollers.

"Which is why you should never date a girl with a boys name."

"And that's the crux of it. The horse. The goddamn horse."

"And I don't know what his fucking problem is. It's not like I've met him in person."

After I grabbed my coffee, I sat down and opened my laptop, an old computer of dust and cracked black plastic. A friend of mine jury-rigged it for wi-fi.

With the June Gloom comes a glut of solicitation e-mails from an on-line match-making account I no longer use. I could comprehend no discernable connection between the mist and the e-mails. However, the e-mails would arrive with predictable regularity every June and October.

Inevitably, they would all be from women in Asia--Nancy from Nanjing, Farrah from Fujian, Sherri from Shanghai. The photos would be invariably airbrushed and the tint so overly bright that the colors would be bleached from the women's faces and clothing. Each woman would have the same pose, the head tilted askew with the chin resting on steepled fingers. With the soft-focus, the use of too strong a flash, and the overdone poses, the photos looked to be from cheap Chinese cinema magazines from the 1960s. Their profiles would be written in the broken English found on chopsticks from cheap Asian take-aways: "I culture very much enjoy. Nice and pretty man of confidence to seek so choose writing for you."

Sometimes, I would wonder about the type of man who would actually respond. Most likely, balding white accountants with psiorosis living in New Jersey wearing threadbear brown suits over yellowed polyester shirts. The type of man who would consider chow mein and a cheap red wine to be the highlight of warm night.

Other times, out of a perverse line of thinking akin to wondering how it would feel to crash one's car into an pylon, I would wonder what a date with Penny from Pusan would entail. The clumsy attempts at conversation followed by equally clumsy attempts to hold my hand, questions about my net worth, my job, my car.

"I do feel sorta bad not getting back to him, but, you know, bad timing. I mean, I didn't plan for things to happen with me and Jordy."

"No, but the alcoholism didn't cause her to fuck the whole sales department."

"Hey Jack, I thought you didn't like Asian women."

I turned around and Wichman was looking over my shoulder. Back in college, Wichman wore pastel-colored Izod shirts, pleated khakis and sported a long blond pony-tail that became shiny with grease and bodily oil. The pony-tail clashed uncomfortably with his pale face and the red, round nose of an Irish drunk. Ten years later, the pony-tail was gone to be replaced by an unruly shag of ear length hair more suitable for seventies sitcoms.

I didn’t offer Wichman a seat, but he took one anyway.

“Wichman, how’ve you been,” I said, not looking up and signing off my account.

“Same old same old. You see cashier? She was totally flirting with me,” Wichman replied with a leer. “For fuck sake, you haven’t settled down yet? You know what you’re problem is?”

When I didn’t respond, he proceeded to answer his own question. “You’re problem is that you don’t believe in God. It’s human nature to worship something, to place another being higher than himself. Since you don’t believe in God, you place women on your pedestal instead. And you know what, buddy o’ mine, the only woman who want to be worshipped are broken women, and that’s a whole mess of trouble. Hey, but you already know that, am I right or am I right?”

I packed away my laptop, looked briefly at Wichman, and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, I guess you’re right, Wichman. I guess you are. Sorry to run, but I have to head back to work.”

As I walked toward the door, Wichman shouted, “Jack, you just don’t like Asian women!”

Outside, the mist was beginning to disperse. The sunlight made its way through the sky, all golden and almost buttery, creating an air of nostalgia. I walked by an attractive Eurasian woman in a light blue blouse and dark worn jeans, nodding in time to her Ipod. She caught me glancing at her and smiled. I returned her smile and went on my way.

Karma Police

"This is what you'll get when you mess with us . . ."

To fate, destiny, the idiot monkey god who flings dung of misfortune upon my life or whatever higher power exists:

OK, I get it. I apologize for my last entry doubting your power. I mean, when the first song on my Ipod this morning was "The Threat to the Governor of Haurfleur" from the Henry V soundtrack, I said, hmmmmmm. And then The Pixies "Motorway to Roswell" came up ("Last night he could not make it/he tried hard but could not make it/. . .and now we wonder how could this so great turn so shit"), I said, "OK, there's no pattern, just noise." Even when the third song was "Honky's Ladder" by the Afghan Whigs ("Caught you motherfucker where I want you, I got five upon your dime"), yeah, I started sweating.

And the day turned out to be absolutely shit--staff issues, including a staff member lying directly to my face, things getting fucked up on my watch, general work crapola I thought was over. Even then, I stood my own against this onslaught, thinking the whole thing with the Ipod and the crap workday was juuuuuuust coincidence.

What happens when I get home, I get a call from the ex--at least that saved me from punching myself in the heart three times and in the crotch five.

So oh idiot monkey god whom I shall deem George, I get the picture. I shall believe in karma again. I have done my penance. Can you please call off the crotch hammer of frustration now? Pretty please?

God Put A Smile Upon Your Face

Sometimes, I envy the believers. In my weaker moments, I wish I could walk through life knowing that the world, fate, God was speaking to me. I turn my Ipod to shuffle and ask the oracle a question. The synchronicity of hearing the name on a television show the exact moment I was thinking about someone with the same name is a message fraught with meaning and depth.

If the randomness was not just a signal to noise, then there must be some implicit order. The sacrifices, the heartache, the frustration, bad things through no fault of your own, the casual cruelty, all this you can bear knowing that it is all leading you closer to that brightness just over the horizon if only you can keep going. All the kindness and the love that you gave (and that was thrown away) will be rewarded.

Faith becomes a warm blanket and a fire in a cold twilight.

But I think too much. If the world were really so ordered, if karma was really so swift, then the implications are untenable. The piss-soaked bum mumbling to himself, his face caked in grime, well, I don't know if he deserves to be where he is. I doubt every single piss-soaked bum were each child molesting tax cheats who kicked puppies on the way to the whorehouse. And you can't tell me trust fund babies engaged heroics straight out of the womb to deserve their money.

So as much as I want to believe in destiny, as much as I want to be a believer, I just can't. It would make my life easier to believe that, after what I've gone through, life will reward me with something wonderful if I can just hold on. But if I believe in that, then the rest of the world will truly be a drab, shitty, predestined purgatory. Better to believe there is no set path, that there is no justice other than the one we make for ourselves. And that means there are no paths, only horizons.

Fall in Light

"Feel no shame for what you are
Feel no shame for what you are
Feel no shame for what you are . . ." -- Jeff Buckley, "New Year's Prayer"

Hey kids! It's time for an opaque parable of my current existential angst awkwardly clothed in bad prose!

Red rolled into town when I was kicking dirt in the noonday sun. I had just downed the third shot of some cheap whiskey that looked like wood varnish and went down like paint stripper. The desert dust was going to cake the black chrome of his Cadillac into a cracked yellow. Red never did have much sense, but fuck it, he's the one driving the Cadillac while the sun dries out the green polyester on my Pinto.

Red was driving too fast and went past Casa de Jack a quarter of mile before he realized his mistake, then flipped a bitch, kicking up more dust before he finally braked in front of me. I didn't mind. My front yard was dust, a couple of plastic surplus chairs from the middle school and an AM radio sitting on the steps on the trailer.

"Fuckin' aye, Jack, you wanna fuckin' retire, you wanna fuckin' lay low, you coulda gone to fuckin' Palm Springs if you like the desert so much. But Kingman, Arizona? Man, ain't nothin' here but Bibles, skinny old fuckers and drunk pregant high schoolers."

"Well hello to you too asshole," I said, pouring some whiskey into a paper cup. I handed the cup over to Red. "Good seeing you again."

Red downed his shot while I took a swig from the bottle. "Fuck," Red spat, "how you drink this shit?"

"Like a guy who drinks mojitos should be puttin' down another man's drink. Siddown Red, you're liable to make a man nervous you keep standing up like that."

Red took a look at the once white plastic seat, now gray, covered with years of solified soot. You would've thought that he was about to sit on a public toilet seat splattered with the mess of a thousand truck drivers.

"So what brings you down to Kingman? Certainly ain't the culture."

"What do you think? The peanut gallery thinks it's about time you get back on the grift, and for once, I agree with the peanut gallery."

"Yeah? I heard the peanut gallery is doing fine without me."

"Shit, it's not about how we're doing. It's about how you're doing. Don't look right having a veritable fucking master grifter out here, pissing the days away with bad whiskey and talk radio."

I was trying for a chuckle and it came out all dry and evil sounding. "Master grifter? Red, before the last couple of gigs, I couldn't pull a scam worth shit. Timing was off, I was either just a step behind another joe on a mark, or the marks were way outta my league."

"So? You made up for that in spades, my man. Shit, what with getting Fanelli out of the picture and keeping both your balls intact. And you got the girl."

"Yeah, right, a lot of good that did me."

"What, still too early? OK man, fine. But you got more than what most people get, and with all that experience, seems a waste to be just sitting here."

"I got my ears to the ground."

"Uh huh, which is why you're in your wife-beaters and boxers listening to fat men in bad suits testify about the Lord our Jesus on AM radio while drinking yourself to sleep."

It wasn't really going to serve much of a purpose to get angry, so I didn't. "Yeah, well, I got no drama in my life, Red. For the first time in a long time, I got no drama. No one to get me so spun around that I don't know which way is up and which was is down. Got no entanglements. I do have the warm sun and bad whiskey. I got enough to live and keep me, well, not happy, but not sad either. And that's a helluva lot better than all that shit that went down."

Red and I sat there for a while, letting our lungs get scorched by the heat of the day. Red looked over at me and said, "Hey, the peanut gallery knows a lot of bad shit went down. Bad shit that no one should go through. They talk about that too, which is why we haven't bugged you for the last six months. Hell, if I were in your shoes, maybe I'd go all batshit and get some twelve-gauge facial reconstruction. But the fact of the matter is, you don't seem so batshit to me right now."

"Look," Red kept jawing, "so you don't want to be back in that bad place. But I know that you haven't felt that joy like a fluttering of wings in your chest. And I can't guarantee you'll ever feel it if you come back home, but you certainly won't feel it again sitting out here." That Red, he can sure be poetic.

"You know I still dream about how it all went down," I said. "The way the bullet slammed into my chest, me throwing up blood as my heart was racing and my body went cold. The way everything felt numb and nauseous at the same time when I went into shock. I think about her saying goodbye. That's not a place where I want to be again, Red."

"Yeah, but those dreams aren't going to go away. Least you can do is try to get some new ones. As I said, ain't no guarantees that you won't find yourself in that situation again, but you sure as hell ain't gonna get any better dreams with your chinky yellow ass sitting here."

"But I ain't gonna get hurt either."

"Well, I'm not here to twist your arm. You wanna rejoin the rest of the world, you know where to reach us. Just give it some thought, OK?"

"Sure man."

Red went back into his Cadillac and kicked up some more dust. I spent the rest of the afternoon watching cool wooden crosses on the hill as the preacherman testified about the revival of the soul.

Happy Easter! 

Good Fortune

"And I feel like some bird of paradise
My bad fortune slipping away
And I feel the innocence of a child
Everybody's got something good to say"

- PJ Harvey, "Good Fortune"

After about thirty-three and a half years of existence, I think I'm finally beginning to feel comfortable with who I am. Do I still have angst? Well yeah, but not about my personality. Do I still dream about being on EW's It List for new writers? Hells ya, yo, but I'm not tossing and turning over whether I'll ever be published.

OK, so maybe I don't sound all yippity skippity about every aspect of my life. But I don't feel the need to apologize for who I am or to change the way I behave. I don't feel the need to pity myself and pull the whole self-martyr thing. I'm just a guy who, more often than not, will pull knee-jerk acts of kindness that will get me in trouble. I'm also a guy who, more often than not, can be a materialistic and lookist bastard.

Now, I'm still not ready to totally let the past fade to black. And fucking aye, flakiness still annoys the shit outta me (I know, living in LA, the flakiness capital of the world, that's like being an eskimo that gets pissed about snow). But on the other hand, being comfortable with myself has taken away one more worry from my brow.

Yup, getting paid $80/hour for an ocean view sure does have wonderous recuperative effects.

I'm Only Happy When It Rains

When it rains, people wearing glasses look like they have low self-esteem. We have our shoulders hunkered up while our heads face down in a vain attempt to keep the rain off our glasses.

Yeah, I know, very Larry King-like observation, except, ya know, I'm not bugfuck insane.

Krafty

For the first time since I've started blogging, there's been radio silence because I've been content. There's been no drama making my life a delirium of highs and lows--no stalkers, no bizarre love triangles, no women who've just broken off an engagements looking at me with odd hope in their eyes, no repeated breakups with the inevitable (and more fucked up) reconciliations, no bosses throwing staplers at me, no associates scheming behind my back, no feeling of dread of a daily ten hours of sociopathic and psychotic behavior that seems to pass for the norm in most workplaces.

I've simplified my life--wake up, go to work in Santa Monica until the sun sets over the Pacific turning the sky bright red and the ocean into black glass, put the Ipod on shuffle and go through the day with a soundtrack, fall asleep looking forward to the next day. I try not to think about the last few years, and instead focus on the odd confluence of a great single--New Order, Twilight Singers, Massive Attack--popping up on the Ipod just as I hit a patch of sunlight and an ocean breeze while wandering around the Promenade during lunch. And I think, "Maybe life could be better, but if this is the best, I guess I'll keep going on to the next screen."

OK, not the most exciting of lives, but I've had enough of excitement since I've moved back down to L.A. four years ago, some good, but a lot of the bad Mexican soap opera it's only entertaining if it isn't happening to you excitement. So this lack of drama, and the heretofore unknown feeling of contentment, well, it's certainly better than the fear, the angst, the broken heart.

Yeah, I know, what about the novel. What about being a writer. I'll get there, but I'm in the process of getting my bearings back. You can't blame a guy for wanting a breather. And then I'll get back to writing.

Now, if something exciting walks across my path in a slinky saunter, I certainly wouldn't turn my back and walk away. But right now, I'm just happy waiting for the next Twilight Singers album ("Powder Burns" in May), Darren Arofnosky's "The Fountain," the third season of Battlestar Galactice in October, and the British publication of Richard K. Morgan's new novel later this year. Oh, and finally getting a fucking Xbox 360 and a nice tax refund doesn't hurt that whole contentment dillio either.

"Just give me one more day (one more day)
Give me another night (just another night)
I need a second chance (second chance)
This time I'll get it right (This time I'll get it right)"

-New Order, "Krafty"

Random Rules

Reposted from my Myspace bulletin via Tres Chicas (Myspace: It's Not Just For Fourteen Year Old School Girls and Pedophiles Anymore!)

Go to your music player of choice and put it on shuffle.
Say the following questions aloud, and press play.
Use the song title as the answer to the question.
NO CHEATING.

How does the world see you?
"Summertime" --cover by Bobby Womack + The Roots

Will I have a happy life?:
"Words" -- The Doves

What do my friends really think of me?:
"Fighting for My Love" -- Nil Lara

Do people secretly lust after me?:
"Sure Thing" -- St. Germain

How can I make myself happy?
"Shameless" -- Stereo MC's

What should I do with my life?
"Tristan" -- Dead Can Dance (enter into a doomed relationship with someone already engaged? Shit, that was soooooo two years ago)

Will I ever have children?:
"Work To A Calm" -- Gemma Hayes

What is some good advice for me?:
"Summer Sun" -- Texas

How will I be remembered?:
"Victim of a Foolish Heart" -- Joss Stone (aw fuck that's a bit too spot on)

What is my signature dancing song?:
"The Simpsons Halloween Special End Credits ("The Addams Family Homage")"

What do I think my current theme song is?:
"Lazy Moon" - Groove Armada

What does everyone else think my current theme song is?:
"In Time" - Zero 7

What song will play at my funeral?:
"Nearly Lost You" - Screaming Trees

What type of men/women do you like?:
"Kizmet" - Lelonek

What is my day going to be like?:
"Unravel"--Bjork

Nutshell

Let's start with the positive.

For the past three weeks, I've been the happiest I've ever been professionally. My body has begun to wake up naturally at 7:30 in the morning, even on weekends. I look forward to arriving at the office, setting the Ipod on shuffle, watching the Pacific waves crash against the beach. The work is still the same writing and research drudgery, but it becomes almost zen-like--all I have to do turn my head to the right and I have an unobstructed floor to ceiling ocean-view. Suddenly, those hours on Lexis, reviewing documents, drafting motions just become meditation. I don't mind staying late so I can watch the sun set over the water.

Emotionally, well, it's now been a little over four months since the Final Break-up, and I've found that I just don't have anything left. I can still be funny, charming at odd moments, kind to small animals, but when I look at that place where I used to smile inside if I caught a girl's eye, there's nothing there. I have lost the ability to feel any sort of romantic interest. That dream of "Helping the kids out of their coats . . ./Unpacking the bags and setting up/And planting lilacs and buttercups"? Totally gone. And when I do think of the times that I was able to feel an emotional attachment, I'm devastated.

Yeah, I know, other people have had their hearts broken and have gotten over it. Bully for them. But I made the mistake of letting a Certain Someone back into my life over and over, giving her what she needed until she was strong enough to leave me. What a dumbass that makes me. And now, all I'm doing is shuffling the deck so that I can keep going forward, hide that queen of sorrows away.

A new coworker says that what has happened to me gives her hope that all men aren't complete asshats (but she's married and has two kids). But, to end with the negative, if I'm what happens to men who are decent and willing to give 100% of themselves to someone, well, now you know why most men are complete self-involved pricks who think only of themselves.

Solsbury Hill

My dreams have been much more vivid lately, and within the randomness, I'm beginning to see strange patterns. I don't see them repeated with each dream, though enough during the week to make me scratch my head.

Now me hooking up with attractive Asian women in my dreams? OK, that's rather obvious. I'm also having Duke dreams again. But how about me traveling to Baltimore?

About a week ago, I dreamt I was on a plane flying to Baltimore. I decided to voluntarily relocate to the Baltimore office, and I was positively giddy about it. I looked out of the window, and the noon sun was over the Chesapeake Bay making the water into quicksilver and gold. There was a thin ribbon of concrete parallel to the beach which I knew to be the bridge connecting the Baltimore-Annapolis-DC corridor to the Eastern Shore. When I saw the bay, I became excited at the prospect of spending a weekend just chilling in Annapolis, and then heading toward some small bed and breakfast on the Eastern Shore to eat some crabs.

When I got to the airport, the afternoon passed rapidly. I took out my cell phone to call the new office. Once in a while, the home office screwed up and didn't give a heads up. I wanted to make sure the Baltimore office knew I was coming. But I dropped my cell phone down three floors. I rushed down the spiral stairway to salvage my phone. And then I had to get in line for the baggage claim. The airport kept changing the terminal for the baggage pickup. By the time we were directed to the right terminal, it was already dark outside. I woke up frustrated.

Last night, I dreamt I was watching a reverse time-lapse of some Greek coastal city. The coast line when from beach to cliff, with modern buildings being taken down and replaced by ancient buildings. Marble parthenons replaced silver skyscrapers. Then it went all first person perspective, and I was riding on a train that eventually took me to a beach in Maryland. There was some sort of festival on the beach. I remember thinking all the tourists were all at Fort McHenry, instead of enjoying the food, the sand and the deep blue Atlantic. I was looking for someone. I didn't know who. I woke up when the phone rang, and I have no idea how I felt.

Dusk You And Me

Views from My Office at OceanGig2


Morning View 


Noon 


Sunset 


Side View of the Santa Monica Pier 

We Can Live Beside The Ocean

Ah yes, I have to admit it feels like that warm rush you get when you drink good scotch on a winter's eve. It's the mental equivalent of that melting, fluttering-of-the-eyes inducing sweetness from the first taste of dark forest chocolate (or a fucking good smack hit). Yes, Marty Stark is making money and it feels so good.

I have this weird knack for getting gigs whenever I need the cashish (though admittedly, once I get the gig is a different matter). The rest of my life may be one bad drama, what with stalkers, bad affairs, fluffchicks and the general LA crapola, but my gig finding luck is one that seems to be scary good. Moved up to Silicon Valley without a gig from law school, ended up with a six figure gig at Biglaw a month later. First Biglaw screwed me, moved to a better paying and more prestigious Biglaw. Quit Biglaw, took a year off, moved back down to LA, found a new gig in less than a month. That piece of shit gig got too crazy, started life as a contract attorney. When my first contract gig dissolved, got hired at double the rate by one of the attorneys that left. When a certain, ahem, someone and I got involved, managed to find yet another contract gig in less then a month. And now, when I finished the first draft of the novel and needed to shore up reserves, got this gig in two weeks.

Oh yeah, and I got the rate I wanted, plus I have my own office with an ocean view. And the building is the last office building before the Pacific Ocean. Now if I can only (1) figure out how to revise the novel and (2) get this luck to friggin' spill over into the rest of my life.