Okay I'll answer the question all of you have been asking. Why did I give up on writing the screenplay about the man with my name that was murdered by his wife, whose name coincidentally sounds like my mother's? Why did I stop consenting to bi-weekly deli meetings where plot points and genre specifications were debated over lukewarm soup and sleazy pickles?
That's my answer. I'm sticking to it.
Sometimes when I look out into the horizon I swear I can see the whole universe splayed out like a paint drops from a lemonade pitcher. Then I dream I'm being tortured and it's only going to get worse until I wake up and discover I fell asleep to The 40-Year-Old Virgin and the chest hair waxing scene is on and that's why I had the dream.
I will run a marathon in 2007.
Speaking of Virgin, is it not the best comedy of the past 7 years?
Have I not talked about the weather yet? This strange Los Angeles humidity. It feels like foreign currency looks.
My reign as Customer of the Week at Peet's Coffee on Larchmont in Hollywood is over. It was a good run. Free coffee for seven days. Quizzical looks from passersby. A bad polaroid in which I looked like a cross between Benicio Del Toro and former VJ Adam Curry taped to the wall. It's over now. I have to pay for my coffee. Do I even like coffee? Have I ever liked it?
I need to reassess some things.