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Monday, January 26, 2004 I've been too uptight, I think. Intimidated by the screenplay form. I've gotta be like a nineteenth century writer, like Johnson, or like Updike, who, as Amis says, is like a "psychotic Santa" of writing, firing off reviews, etc etc then goes up to his office to "blurt out" a novel. Anyway, the script is fun, gotta write for fun, to get shit off my chest. That way if nothing happens with it (likeliest scenario) at least I'll have had fun... Hmmm...that came out sounding a little more depressing than I meant it to... Anyway, it's bullshit. As P. Diddy says, "We don't play to play, we play to win." Using the first-person plural to refer to himself, Team P. Diddy, and Bad Boy Records. I'm happy with my team. They don't play to play, they play to win. Why should I be any different? It's just that...there's so much crap out there. People seem to love crap. But I'm not gonna worry about that. "Overexposure" is a great idea-- a man with an extramarital crush-let tries to get over it by overexposing himself to the source of temptation-- and I'm the man to write it, man, especially because I have an excellent co-writer in my wife. Yes, that's right, my friends. Everybody asks me, "What does Pam think of your little project, there, Dave?" Well, she's my co-writer, dudes and dudettes. "I need you, Pam, to help me flush out the character of the wife," I told her this morning. "What? I can't be the little hottie?" was her instant response. And she is. My darling: she is my wife, and she's my little hottie, too. I've gotta get that vasectomy so we can have sex again some day. She won't even let me near her until I get a vasectomy. She won't even get naked around me, nor allow me to be naked. She is now frightened of the awesome fertilizing power of my un-vasectomized nutsack. As well she should be. It's like...a flashlight under the covers, you can see through my underwear two like blue-glowing bulbs as the circuitry of my robo-package begins to boot up, like something designed by the Pentagon. CUT TO-- Dr. Whatisname, our new doctor who just wants to chat and doesn't give a shit about your medical problems (other people's medical problems bore him and kind of freak him out, he just likes to chat about his trip to Italy and shit, his recent freelancing gigs, it's very hard to bring up the topic of your problems when you visit him, and when you do he seems horrified and quickly changes the subject: why he became a Dr. I have no idea), laughing dementedly, his scalpel and Dr.'s mask covered in spatters of blood as Yours Truly, "David Henry," limps out of his office with a sudden penchant (pronounced French-fashion pen-shan) for Bette Midler records, flower arrangements, "valances." "Taxi!" he squeals in a high, mincing falsetto, and heads home in shame and defeat... But everyone settles down to it in the end. Well, all responsible men. The modern dad: a tiny surgical scar on the bottom of his-- I can't say "nutsack" again, how about testicles-- as he drives around in a minivan. Stops at a stoplight, eyeballs university chicks on the corner. They look right through him... A sad picture... But I can't ask Pam to undergo a "tubal ligation." Much as I want to. They put you completely under for that, which is scary and a little dangerous. So I guess I'll give him a call... Cheerio. I'll update this thing more frequently now, 2004, baby... Wednesday, January 14, 2004 No, I haven't written in this thing for a while because I've been beating my head against the wall writing a script. I don't know why this thing is eluding me. I think I need to lean back and think, just think. Or not. I'm all fucked up.
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