Warning: This journal is rated R, for restricted audiences. It contains naughty language and adult situations. If you are under 18, do not read without the consent of an adult.
Running out of patience,
Monday, August 3, 1998: Production Day 11
While the weekend was not so drenched in booze and vomit as the last, surprisingly, it was far more productive. Resisting the siren call of bars, lounges, opium dens, whorehouses, and other parlors of ill-repute, I managed to not only preserve a decent percentage of my meager wages, but actually concentrate on my supposed writing "career"; my commitment to which, if calculated in time spent honing my craft against time spent on this preposterous "Malkovich" abomination, would be the equivalent of coming home and smacking my wife of 15 years in the face after cavorting on a Pacific island with a busload of high-school cheerleaders drunk on Zima for three weeks. An ugly and uncomfortable homecoming it was, and almost as unfamiliar as if I were opening up a screenplay written by someone else entirely- but, to my pleasant surprise, I found what exists of "Kill Yourself" by Lloyd Rice to be incredibly well-written and enjoyable. Not to brag or nothin', but I'm damn near an autistic genius. It is a wonder, given my extraordinary gift for sculpting the written word into compelling drama, evoking pathos and compassion from text on the page the way a more common man might, say, squeeze juice from a tangerine in his callused hand, that I can even function on a "normal" level, much less engage in, day after day, the fatiguing tasks demanded of a first-time Production Assistant. You would think the human mind could only accommodate so much creative energy before the more pedestrian assignments- gathering food, speech, bathing, etc- were discarded in favor of benefitting the Human condition with inspired beauty. Art, my friends, is only in the blessed hands of a few of us, and the rest are obligated to then provide the menial services of everyday life so the artist may thrive. Shakespeare certainly did not waste away his years, effectively robbing the future generations of his overwhelming literary contributions, doing things like delivering film to Burbank and coddling the inflated egos of celebrity halfwits. But there is much injustice in this cruel world, dear reader, and what faith I regained in my ability these last few days- so abused and misdirected I was this sour Monday, thrust once again into the swirling shit-storm of freelance knob-gobbling- that I fear my delicate constitution may not be able to sustain much longer. Oh well. Too bad, uncaring and impetuous world, for as my genius is smothered, so shall you suffer a relentless succession of ever worsening wastes of celluloid on shallow characters, watery plots, and fart jokes. See you in hell. Million dollar idea: alarm clock with a built-in digital sampler- you could have your mom say "get up! you'll be late for school", etc.
