Junk Food

Saturday, March 31, 2012


Inspiration for this came from a video a friend posted online about tiny robots that can fly around, avoid barriers or obstacles, work in teams and even build simple structures using magnets.  My mind of course soared to the land of the future where technology is everything and the world no longer resembles a lush wild habitat but a techno-industrial global metropolis.

So now I have to tell a story about Joe.  Joe is fictional but very much alive.

Act one contains frivolous imagery, as usual.  The exposition is clear but not as sharp and concise as I like it.  Joe is introduced and we find out he is dying.  At the end of the act, his brain is put into a low-tech flying robot but it is very fragile.  There is a risk of loss of consciousness but he does it anyway because he is so scared of death.  The relief of a successful consciousness transfer marks the end of Act one.

Act two the flying robot body begins to fall apart.  The maintenance expectations are too low and Joe can barely keep it from falling apart.  This puts him in almost the same condition he was in during the beginning of Act one when he discovers he is dying and decides to transfer his mind.  A series of tests and prototype bodies come along.  Joe finds himself becoming a guinea pig for a carousel ride of experiments involving several stages of what ends up becoming his more permanent body.  Only real catch is that the body is the size of a sky scraper and moves at lumbering slow speeds relative to the rest of the world.  Joe is alone but he becomes proud in his new form.  Powerful yet humble.  He feels enlightened.  

This enlightenment is short lived however, when the disconnect he experiences between himself and the mortal world keeps him in the dark about a political eruption.  The humans have been using him as a staging area for their radical movement against brain transfers.  Joe is powerless against this threat that is literally happening inside of his colossal body.  One human woman enters the core of Joe's brain center and learns to drive him.  She forces the activists to leave by operating the body, which had been static for many decades.  The activists lose their vigor and steam as they run screaming into the open arms of the law.  She saves him by taking him half way around the world, from his home in the Republic of California to the Chinese Conglomerate Alliance where there are many others like him and he can be safe while his body is repaired.  

While his body is recuperating, the woman begins falling in love with him and wants to undergo a similar procedure.  Joe forbids it, but she goes behind his back anyway and arranges for them both to be placed in bodies the size of space shuttles that can fly and operate in zero gravity environments.  The catch is that they have to serve as prototype spacecraft for the CCA and test warp drives and participate in other volatile experiments.  They are promised they would remain in the same fleet so they could be together, but the promise is almost immediately broken when a global war breaks out between RoC and CCA.  Joe makes off with one of the experimental warp drives and zaps himself into uncharted space and is all alone once again with very little solar power.  The second act ends with Joe adrift in space with his power cells unable to recharge due to lack of sufficient solar energy within range.

Act three begins with a tiny space probe from unknown origin.  It inspects Joe from aft to stern and determines that he is indeed a living thing, we presume.  A kind of space tug boat comes to take him away and they warp out together to another part of space.  When Joe comes to, he is greeted by an ancient planet-sized robot creature that is somehow able to communicate with him, though at first he doesn't realize how.  Then it becomes clear that the planetbot is in fact his companion, the woman who he was separated with.  She says she was taken in by a sort of Galactic Federation of Intelligent Machines capable of slowly altering the course of galactic movement and patterns in the stars.  Joe must decide whether to continue growing and expanding or to die.  His power cells are failing and will never be able to be recharged again.  This is his last chance to cling to life.  He must use all the power left in his cells to make the transfer happen.

Denouement: (I love that word)

When his mind is transfered, he discovers that he is not clear enough about what exactly he is going to be transfered to.  It turns out he becomes a small, flying robot with highly degraded awareness and intelligence due to the repeated mind transfers he has undergone.  He lives out the rest of his eternal days as a maintenance bot in a factory in a big city on the planetoid robot body of the woman he had loved.


Thoughts?  Ideas?  Shit you're not clear on?

Friday, March 30, 2012

A Scene

A scene ends when you change the location or the time within which you have placed your subject(s). There are stricter rules for scriptwriting than there are in literature, but I am pretty sure the idea is the same. 

They are building blocks, just like sentences and paragraphs, and they are indeed much better when full of juicy meat like substance.


Saying the word "happy" right now feels like the first time I said "fuck".  It comes shockingly naturally and I can't remember ever not saying it about myself.

Wait, what?

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Blankity Blank Games Spec Ad

This is a script for a spec ad that I wrote this time last year.  Unfortunately it never made it to production, but I still very much want to produce/direct this piece.

SOOOOO if anyone is interested, give me money!  Hahaha.



In my dream I travel from person to person, from mind to mind.  At last I inhabit a killer.  A mercenary.  I’ve killed one of my own.  Betrayal in cold blood and my brothers in arms smell a rat.


DREAMER runs full speed through a thick forest.  He breathes in heavy mechanical gasps and exhales steam.  The ANTIQUE RIFLE in his hand catches branches as his stride quickens.

Thunder cracks.

Dreamer nearly slips but catches his balance.

Closing in behind him are three men.  All are masked and armed.  They point and yell in a FOREIGN DIALECT to one another.  Rage fuels their every move.

Dreamer turns a corner and opens his stride into a grassy clearing.  His pursuers follow only a short distance behind, still closing.

I distinctly remember resigning to my impending end.  As my brothers more than match my quickening gate.  They will catch up to me soon.  Then they will end me.


Dreamer crests a sheer cliff.  Pebbles roll from his sliding feet as he swings his balance back to avoid a less honorable death.

Thunder cracks again.

Two rifles lock and click. (O.S.)

ECU: A dirty thumb pulls back the hammer on an ANTIQUE REVOLVER.

ECU: The chamber spins into place.

As I catch my last breaths, I feel the cold steel barrel before it even touches my right temple.  I never see the bullet.

The pistol fires.


The crack of the flint is faint and damp and it sounds like I’m under water.  I feel the very life of me being swiftly pulled from my fingertips, my toes, up through my chest and neck, gathering momentum as it goes.  Finally it reaches my head and I feel nothing.



Rumbling thunder.

Then thunder rolls to a deafening crash.

Deafening thunder crash.


ECU: A TWENTY-SIDED DIE rolls to a stop in the center of the frame.  The number “20” settles on the top.

Four GAMERS, one of them, the Dreamer, erupt into cheering and laughter.

Oh man, another crit?

Yeah.  Sorry man, tough luck.



Blankity Blank Games.  Cus you can never take it too seriously.

The Cosmic Child

Some men are just old because they look it, even if they really aren't.  This one old man outside a Peet's Coffee in the Pearl District looked me dead in the eye one day.  His miscolored, aching eyes, so dry they made me blink and well.

"You are the cosmic child." He named me.

This distorted my perspective and ego profoundly for the following year and a half.  Who the fuck was he kidding?  The cosmic child?  But then I thought, really?

Everybody wants to be special, I guess.

The conversation that followed on this, my name day, went in all sorts of astronomically comical directions.  My heart pounding with joy, like some kind of opposite from a whore in church.  Those first few months in Portland were pretty dry.  I knew I was just experiencing some kind of ego high that wasn't really enlightenment.  It was earned.  It wasn't supported by some kind of rich epiphany.  He simply offered it to me and I ran with it.  For years, I ran with it.  Believing I was some kind of celestial creature born from a city I had only just arrived in that week.  I wanted to be connected to it all.  The culture, the hip shit.  The fucking zeitgeist.

That was my second mistake.

Then I let her in.  "Enemy," they whispered to me beneath my nightmares.  My only nightmares.  The snake crawled in an open sore and bit down.

Humility hit me hard then.  I think the planet cracked.  Perhaps it was from the massive concussion my ego made when it came screaming and white hot back down to Earth.  I gave up the dream, the special powers, the responsibility.  And I let the inspiration drift through my empty ape eyes and across the greyscale cityscape along with her spectre gods.

Sweat.  Not blood.  "E-ne-my," echoing and enchanting.  The word never held so much power before that.  It covered me like a blanket and left me shivering in the cold.


There comes a time in every blog's girlhood when enough is enough and nature unleashes her fury.


All systems go.