This just in:

MUCKFUPPET, the short film from the 2006 Sidewalk Sidewrite Grand Prize winning script, will be showing at the Alabama Theater (the 1800 block of 3rd Avenue North, you uncultured heathens) as part of the Alabama Shorts number 2 block of films.  Also included in this block are Yuri Shapochka’s WAITING, the production prize winner from Sidewrite, and Jennifer West’s PIECE OF CAKE.

MUCKFUPPET stars Melissa Bush and Scott Ross as two friends meeting for lunch and conversation.  I would tell you more, but at just under 8 minutes long, do you really need to know more than that?

Really?

Okay — it’s a romantic piece, there’s no twist, and not a single element of gore or horror.  I know — how unlike me, right?  But it worked.  Let’s see — it also features an amazing look, thanks to the cinematography of Chance Shirley, the lighting of Chris Hilleke, and 16mm film.

That’s right: this film was shot on film.  You don’t see that every day. Probably because it’s painfully expensive, but ignore that.

Better yet: don’t ignore it.  Come see it, and then tell the stars and the crew what a great job they did, because this was an expensive venture.

Saturday, September 23, 1:30 PM at the Alabama Theater. See Sidewalk Film Festival for more details.

A cowboy once said, “You know more than you speak, and I speak more than I know.”

I see myself in characters on the movie screen, on the printed page. I find a little of myself in every piece of art, every entertainment, high to low. Sometimes in heroes, sometimes in villains, always in a key (if not highlighted) role.

Looking back, I have yet to find you in those stories. A bit here, perhaps, and a hint there, but no muse has ever inspired a character quite you. The songs I hear don’t wrap the feelings in the right words, don’t wrap the right feelings in words. The daydreams inspired by movies and comic book arcs don’t hold the grandeur that I feel laying next to you, wondering if this is real, if I’m dreaming, why I am so lucky.

“It seemed natural,” you purred sleepily.

For all the changes, for all the holes in me that your luminescence uncovers, I am fulfilled, or perhaps at peace. Knowing that — no matter what else comes — I was not wrong all the years, determined to believe that my waking dream existed. And if the most unbelievable and romantic can come to pass, can be found in the material world, hand in hand with sunlight and open eyes, then nothing else that I can imagine is impossible; anything and everything is out there, waiting to be discovered with patience and open eyes and a heart filled with belief.

What a wonderful world, I think to myself. So the song goes…

My friend Trixie writes a nice post about the coming of autumn, a metaphor for the changes in her life. In response, I’m going to shit all over her well-worded ponderings by complaining that, by the gods, summer will never end.

There’s something funny about this apartment.  I’m wagering on some sort of haunting or somesuch; every night between about 9 and midnight or 1 AM, no matter what the day’s weather, the air conditioner stops working.  It’s not broken, I mean; you can hear the motor whirring, and if you put your hand by the vent, you can feel the oh-so-tempting tease of cool air coming out.  But it’s hot in here.  Hot.  Not quite Auschwitz on Cullom Street hot, but enough.

It’s not just me.  CL has noticed it, independently.

And the leaves are turning yellow, and beginning to fall from their branches and gather on the ground, but I think that’s just the trees’ way of saying goodbye, fair world, it’s too fucking hot for us around here.  We’re packing our shit and moving up north.

Even the squirrels around here don’t really have the usual bushy tails, so I’m betting it’s never going to be cool here again.

Ever.

All I really want is to be able to wear my long-sleeve t-shirts without dehydrating in five minutes. Is that too much to ask?

Being the best is a matter of technical ability, which can be gained through intense study and practice.

Being the best requires ambition, perserverance, determination. Discipline can be taught; if the desire is there, the necessary tools can be adopted.

Being the best requires some amount of gift, of talent, of birthright. Some are more given to a field than others; if you’re lucky, your gift matches your dreams. If you’re unlucky, you’re among the majority.

Being the best at some point becomes a matter of the opinions and tastes of the outside world. There is no pinnacle, only a plateau that holds space for a select few. At that point (as with any superlative), ranking becomes an issue decided by the leanings of the masses.

I often wonder what it would have been like to be among the elite, to be considered the best.

Ah, Friday.  Sweet, sweet end of the working week.  Prelude to a weekend filled with nothing but catching up on life and relaxing, for the first time in a few months.

Sure, I’ve still got one more job shift to make it through — but that’s bartending, and is less like work and more like getting paid to ridicule and be cruel to alcoholic wannabes.

If I have one complaint, it is that football season begins again this weekend.  Those of you that live or have lived in Birmingham (probably the south in general, but I understand Birmingham, Alabama to be the national capitol of college football gambling), you understand, perhaps, why I dread this time of year. Not to say that you, reading this blog, have the intense and overwhelming apathy I have to all things football (unless we’re talking the real football, where hands are useless and headbutts resound the world over).  But there are a lot of places in the country that don’t have to live through the inane zealotry that college football inspires in this city.

Everywhere you go, there are bumper stickers and window flags and jerseys and screams of “Roll Tide” and “War Eagle” — it’s like a mating call down here, I think.  But I’ve got my solution for this year — at least in the bar, when we’re working or playing, any screams of college football slogans will be met with a lively and hearty cry of “Hail, Satan!”

This ridiculous obsession with colleges that most of their fans couldn’t even get into… it’s the reason I’m going to give when I’m arrested for a string of murders, or when I finally check myself into Betty Ford for whatever substance sticks first.

Holding on to anger is not really any different than grabbing a nail-studded potato.  It hurts, and ultimately doesn’t accomplish anything.

Unless, of course, you can use that anger against the person who has wronged you.  For instance, by hurling a nail-studded potato at them.

Repeatedly, if you like.

Sure, forgiveness is nice, and ultimately, you should probably aim for that (or at the least, learning whatever lessons can be learned and moving on).

Until you’re ready to move on, though, aim for the soft, squishy parts.   More chance the nail-studded potato will stick that way.

There’s something about the idea of Radiohead aimed at sleeping children that jumps out at me as just plain wrong. And yet, you listen to the melodies of a song like Knives Out or No Surprises and it’s pretty apparent that changing the arrangement of a Radiohead song leads to good nighttime music.

It also, coincidentally, would make for the ultimate in a ’60s spy movie tribute. Paranoid Android? Perfect.

Surf around Baby Rock Records’ site and tell me if you’re not amazed (and amused) at some of the popular artists that they’ve reimagined for your little tyke. The Beatles? Not hard to imagine. Metallica? Fitting. Tool?

No, seriously. Tool. For babies.

By the way, I want the Radiohead version. Really badly.

“Hi Kenn — Greetings from Sidewalk! Just wanted to drop you a quick note to let you know that MUCKFUPPET has been accepted to run at our 8th annual Sidewalk Moving Picture Festival (Sept. 22-24). Congrats!”

More to come…

I dreamed Saturday night that CL’s dog had decided to make macaroni and cheese. Lacking opposable thumbs, he somehow convinced our three cats to aid him in the preparation.  He then brought the bowl of not-so-nutritious pasta goodness into the bedroom, propped right beneath my pillow and my sleeping head, and began stirring.

I awoke to hear Woody chewing on his tail.

This is all of great amusment to CL.  At least, it will be until I teach the animals to scrape the insides of their yogurt containers with their spoons. In her dreams, of course.

In the mid 90’s, when I used to drink like a different person, I would relish Monday afternoons. Sundays were drunk karaoke nights, and Monday was sleep-off-the-regrettable-night-before day. I would wake up around 1 or 2 in the afternoon, the last remnants of the hangover fading into memory, and I would spend the afternoon with a wonderful feeling — probably relative, a contrast to feeling like death had set up camp in my head and gut — of clarity, and maybe even a little peace.

One thing I’ve learned about depressive episodes is that they tend to follow a similar pattern: lots of pain that it’s easier to sleep through, followed by a time of calm and, when you’re lucky, understanding.

Over the past two days, I’ve dealt with both. Hangover on Saturday, followed by a brief time of clearheadedness; and a fairly intense depression last night. I’m writing this during the clearing following the latter.

You have to take advantage of these things when they come, anticipating them if you can but being ready to recognize them regardless. You don’t know when the clouds will finally dissipate (and if I knew the why, I could make a fortune).

The brain — the spirit, maybe, or the emotional segments — is nothing more than a small pet. It may be willful, and seemingly stronger than you think, but it can be trained to do what you want it to do. It’s not easy work, and it takes determination and stubborn perserverance, but it can be done.

Sometimes, though, it’s easier to just let the dog piss on the floor, and you realize that, for a little while, you don’t feel like cleaning up the mess, or even punishing the puppy. That’s what it can be like to wake up on the wrong side of the head, too; it’s easier to wallow in the misery, to feed the fire with images and memories that torture yourself.

Surviving happily and without stress requires a certain amount of arrogance, if only internally. I have to believe in myself, and sometimes that means putting me above others in my head. It’s not an issue of elevating myself by putting other people down, but rather knowing that where I am is where I should be, that all is as it should be. This may make sense to no one but me, but then, that’s all that matters, on the other hand.

I can’t change other people, and so my happiness is not based on other people’s actions or reactions. I can’t change the past, so I have to let go of things that, lessons learned, no longer matter. I can only affect the now and the tomorrow, and energy spent worrying worthlessly about anything else is wasted.

And the moment of clarity
Faded like charity does
Sometimes
I opened one eye
And I put out my hand just to touch your soft hair
To make sure in the darkness that you were still there
And I have to admit
I was just a little afraid, oh yeah
But then…
I had a little bit of luck
You were awake
I couldn’t take another moment alone.
Roger Waters, 5.11 AM (The Moment of Clarity)

As a postscript, none of us needs any of the rest of us. But it doesn’t mean that we should ever be unappreciative of what and who we do have. We may not need anything other than shelter, food, and water, but the other things in our lives make the journey from point a to point b much more pleasant, possibly even enjoyable.

I would have gotten up on my own, eventually, but it was a lot easier with CL’s help. Thanks, angel.