it's being dreamy (part one in an eleven-part series)

The scene is laid out: we're under an immaculate blue Kentucky sky with a bright sun and powder white clouds few & far between. It's spring time and there's a breeze keeping us from being hot but it's still warm enough for me to wear my thin white Armani Exchange v-neck t-shirt. I'm listening to something weird today, something like Royksopp (Norweigen house/pop music...I guess), but weird is what you'll hear in the car with me anyway...so we'll something say something normal is playing. I don't know where I've come from, but judging by the time of day (about 11 AM), I would say that I've just had breakfast or brunch with some actress who wants to be in one of the upcoming films and I'm just toying her along, more than likely because I'm trying to fuck her. Well, let me rephrase this--I'm trying to fuck her regularly. She wouldn't be talking to me now if it was any other way.

The road I'm on looks a lot like US 42 once you pass through Goshen. You start to see that typical Kentucky landscape: white fences to keep the horses in, rolling fields of bluegrass, farms with Ford F-150s and red barns. Shit like that. It's not my thing, but I've gotten used to the isolation the country offers. I can do whatever I want out here--make noise, race, do doughnuts, get road head while the top's down (well, if I was driving a convertible, I could). More importantly, I don't have to deal with the paparazzi. They have been getting on my nerves of late, always sitting outside of my L.A. condo. I have to time my departures around the same time Lady Gaga is leaving so they'll notice her and I can sneak off to the set. But it's post-production time after four damn months of filming every single day. In post-production, I gotta be relaxed and around comfortable surroundings. L.A.'s too busy, too much of a distraction. I'm too liable to go out and tailgate at a USC game to find a couple of undergrads who are feeling like doing something wild at the condo. Besides, I'm not in the mood for any coked-out threesome drama right now. I'm ready to get to work in the studio.

I finally make it to my sprawling 50-acre estate, make sure to enter the gate code--which I always mix up with my bank card pin number--and pull into the driveway. There are a million cars here, or so it seems, but none of them are mine. Apparently, the Fairmount boys are doing something out by the pool because I'm seeing some splashing of water in the backyard and I'm definitely hearing those annoying girl screams when girls act like they don't want you to rip their clothes off when in reality they've always loosened their G-string. Hey, at least it's early and they're out of the house. I park my M6 (the very same car I decided to give my main character in my first published novel) and take the garage's set of stairs to the basement. I figure if I sneak down that no one will convince me to act a damn fool today. And like I said before, I'm ready to get to work in the studio, a Mac lab where I edit all of my own films. First & final cuts of the film are worked on here in the Bluegrass State, where I can't pay attention to the industry patter. I don't care what they say about my film, and I definitely don't care about Robert Downey, Jr. complaining about a certain amount of time on film, especially since he's not starring. Sometimes that shit gets to me though...can't be around it. Bad vibes. I'm hiding in the Mac lab.

My most trusted editor, B, is waiting on me, looking kinda goofy. I think she's trying to show off some clothes she copped at a fashion show when we were in France for Cannes last week, and honestly, I dig them but not on her. Before I can even sit down and tell B about the brunch, my Blackberry's ringing with my brother's ugly mug on it. That lazy bastard's calling me from upstairs? I let the college boy have his fun; besides, he knows I'm working. Before I can even bring up Final Cut Pro, my Blackberry is ringing again. Ahh, this time it's the queer from Complex Magazine wanting to interview B, S, and me. Where the hell was S anyway? He had been upstairs when I left this morning and his 'rati was in the driveway...ahh, the pool. The girl he was with last night--one he had nabbed from Cannes and brought home with him, kinda like a souvenir--had said she liked to tan nude so she was probably catching some sun, probably catching some S at the same time. Ahh, he wouldn't need to be here for editing today. Anyway, so this really annoying flirty writer for Complex was trying to interview us about OI's growth and the rumored project with Pacino (it's not a rumor, we just haven't had the time to let the ink dry) and I've honestly been dodging the fucker. I don't have time for this. I can't interview just yet; I'm hiding.

I already hate this movie I've yet to edit. I'm trying to keep the optimism in my head, but I'll hate until I love it. The movie is made on the cutting floor, so I have plenty of time to make a movie I love. Until then, I hate it--it'll help me keep focus. The young blonde that just walked downstairs wearing, uh, nothing, so it seems, is a perfect example of a distraction. She asks me where the bathroom is, and I know she already has to know because I have like 5 of them upstairs. I'm hiding...gotta make this movie...gotta do work, gotta focus...but I also gotta hot ass blonde dripping wet with no clothes on asking me to show her where the bathroom is. I might be focused, but I'm not gay. Be right back, B, we'll start editing this thing in about, oh.........20 minutes.

I'm dreamy.................

Whips of the novel (From the Set, Part One)

For my novel, I gotta keep my characters riding fresh whips. I've thought long and hard about this, and I think it's important that they uphold a certain image of success and wealth and shallowness. This is what I've got so far:
















--Barry's BWM M6 Convertible

--Barry's Lamborghini Gallardo Spyder


--Clay's Lexus IS F

--DaShe's Range Rover Sport

--Keenan's Ducati 1098












--Michelle's Porsche Cayenne Turbo



















--Shooter's Mercedes-Benz CLK600





























--Odyssey's Aston Martin V8 Vantage Roadster





















--for the long distances, Barry's Gulfstream G450


Do realize that these are whips for 18-year-old high school seniors!! I think having a nice ass ride at any age is just one to slap a poor person in the face. Looking at this is a slap to my face, I who rideth in Ye Ole White Wildebeest. I'm gonna drop small updates for the books like this not only to get my mind of the monotony of word processing documents, but also to help visualize it. Think of it as press releases from the set that exists in my head.

gonna remix this one a little

I don't really feel like writing out thoughts today, but I feel like sharing my momentum. Over the last few weeks, my creative meter has been through the roof. The ideas I'm having while constructing stories and screenplays have been nothing but a beam from someone who likes me up in heaven. So far, I've:

• Written out three final updated outlines to the the three novels I've been working on since 1999;
• Written two different treatments for two different films, one short and one feature-length;
• Developed a concept for the first three episodes of the reality show I've mentioned in past posts (we're in storyboard mode, sort of, in order to help the producers gain perspective of what's going to be happening figuratively);
• And finally, I've found a writing contest to enter my comedy pilot into, with a grand prize of $100,000 if I win (it's a long shot, but why not shoot for the moon?)!!

Musically, it's been a boring month. Nothing fresh has come out, so I've been having to dig through old volumes to find something different to listen to. Shoot me some shit that I can listen that's fresh, if possible. I've been in more of an electronic mood, listening to Radiohead's Kid A and Kanye West's 808s & Heartbreak lately, so anywhere in the neon realm would be cool.

I must say that I've joined the Twitter realm (twitter.com/theblackbear22) and I'm kinda addicted to it. I didn't think I would be, but it's really taken the steam away from Blogspot because with this, I have to conjure up clear and concise--well, I guess I don't HAVE to--paragraphs and give some clear thought. On Twitter, I write the most random one-liners on there, just whatever the fuck I feel like saying out loud or something. And because you can only put a short message, I don't have to explain anything I say. I just suggest you check it out and reserve judgment at first. I honestly think Twitter has cleared my mind of the junk that cluttered it, which is why I've been able to write fiction a lot better. We can thank sunshine for that too.

Lastly, I want to date a musician. Really badly. I just want to see what it would be like to date a creative person, but I don't want to date another writer. Lord knows that I wouldn't want to date a critic--because writers are so harsh to each other at times--and although I'm a very visual person and shit, I think I'd like to date a girl who can sing and play an instrument. Help me out, people.

--Fin.

all i have left

Sitting at my house in the spring time is pretty dope. Spring becomes tangible, with the perfect breeze flowing through the house throughout the daylight hours and the wild yellow flowers making the landscape look picturesque. It soothes, helps me think about the goal at hand, which is bascially hoping Original Imprint takes off. It's been on my mind all of the time, and focusing on it now that school is over is the only thing I can do to function, not just because it's about realizing a dream...but I also need to think about it to take my mind off of something else.

I hate my ability to give a damn about something I logically don't believe is worth my time, that being the fact I give a flying fuck about emotions, compassion, connections to another person. It's so lame and I wish I could be robotic about it, just turn off the emotion microchip, and keep going about my day. It would be ideal, so much so that I might never turn it back on again. Some could say that's a bad thing, that being emotionless would make me a little less human. I'm not one to complain there, but on the real, it's better than succombing to things like love and intimacy, infatuation and heartbreak, blah and blah. It's so funny because years ago, I embraced such ability to love openly and endlessly with a woman. Hell, I thought it was amazing. But to paraphrase myself, love is simply necessary for procreation. It helps to keep the species going. I'm not really in the procreation mood right now, so is it necessary to have a girl on my mind all the time? Much less two or three or however many I have such semblance of feeling for, whether they're old school or new news?

Worse part about it, I've done everything short of seeing a doctor (for my head) or getting hypnotized. I probably won't go to those extremes, but seriously, what else must I do? Women are fine and dandy and there will come a time when I'm ready to invest time and effort toward being with one. But not now...I've got too much to do. I'm trying to write movies, produce shows, start companies, be a young man and have fun doing it. Still, in the end, whenever the right girl calls, texts, e-mails, whatever, I'm sucked back in. It's almost like I lose control of myself and some alter ego does all the damage while I look on and am left to feel the results, which are usually bad. At least they have been lately. The problem is that I can't let go of the past, which is strange for a futurist, one who is consistently at what's coming rather than what's behind. Nevertheless, while my vision may be forward, I'm still holding onto what I thought I've left behind; it's no surprise that in the grand scheme of "feelings," I've really only had mad infatuation like twice in the last 8 years, love in that span maybe once or twice at best. Yet, those old relationships haunt my memory and perception. It's like I'm moving forward but looking over my shoulder, unable to turn away even though the past is blinding me. Maybe it's why I've taken a liking to sunglasses.

I once took the plunge years ago in asking one special lady out on a date and ended up getting turned down. I thought it would give me closure, considering it took literally years to gather the courage. Yet, the closure never came. It never did; it never does because if I'm willing to ask you out, ladies, it means I've debated on whether it's worth my time and the deliberation in my head can take many months. In fact, if I were to count, I think I've only asked five girls out in my entire life. The rest of them came to me first and I accepted the offers. But with those five, some aren't as relevant and don't even enter my brain anymore. Hell, I finally got over my last love about a year or two ago, a relationship that ended in 2006 for good. I could have really used 808s & Heartbreak back then, hahaha. Putting my own self-psychoanalysis to it, I would say it's just my habit in not letting go when I'm wrong. I hate losing anything, whether it be an argument or a battle of love, and it seems like I'm constantly in a losing battle. Maybe I'm just looking to win that battle just once, even if it's just for a short while. I'm on a 5-year losing streak and until I get out of my funk, I think I'm going to be overwhelmed with this issue even though other aspects of my life are going incredibly well. I will not lose in the end, this I'm sure of, but unforunately, I couldn't answer you properly if you were to ask when this battle will end. I tend to think of myself as larger than life sometimes, at least my ego tells me so in some cases, but this is one subject that's going to keep me grounded. It's bad that I have to sometimes beg and plead to God Himself to just let me sit this battle out to no avail. Instead, I sit, I reflect, and I stare at my kryptonite.

No Original Black Bear to save the day this time; I need someone to rescue me for once.