In the morning, I went to see an apartment that is being rented. This is a big step for me. I’ve been telling you that I’m moving out for… about six months now. To make the whole situation more pathetic, Sophia (my separated wife, for newcomers) came with me to check out the place! Before you make the comparison of mommy accompanying her child on her first day of school, I will do it FOR you. I was nervous about seeing this rental. I found it on Craig’s List.
“Why is it so… inexpensive?” I asked myself. “Is the economy this bad?”
The reason…? Let’s just say that the neighborhood was so-so, and the apartment manager seemed to have a side job running a meth lab. New theory: It is OK to use a coupon at Olive Garden, but not in apartment hunting. Even Sophia hated the place.
New vague plan: Go to NY and visit my real MOMMY for a few weeks and finish this screenplay, then come back and find an apartment. I know… procrastination. Brenda, my therapist, is going to give me one of her “looks” this week.
As I’ve mentioned to some of you, I’ve started to work on this screenplay project with another writer. It was a long process of pitching and coming up with ideas. While nothing is certain, there is some interest, and I’m hoping to make some real money this year, not just the fake dollars that you can use on Second Life. Then again… Hollywood is a risky place until the money is paid.
It is not easy working with another writer. It is like a marriage. It takes some time. The other writer and I split up the work load. I’m writing some of the scenes involving the major female characters. I opened my mouth and said that “I understand women,” when in reality, this is an obvious lie. Belinda from Ninja Poodles told me to read Stephen King.
“He writes excellent female characters!” she said.
Wht do you think? Do you think most male writers do a poor job in creating female characters? I don’t know about you, but I found it completely believable that the Sharon Stone character wore no underwear during that police interrogation in “Basic Instinct.”
Speaking of sex-starved screenwriters, I tried to write a scene on Saturday afternoon while shopping at Target. Target is my new pharmacist, mostly because they give you the pills in these hip red plastic containers. I went to Target to pick up my cholesterol medicine (and some paper towels). This time, I travelled without Sophia holding my hand. After walking the aisles of products of artists and architects who sold out to the Target Man, and drooling over this cool red Michael Graves toaster, I decided to have a cup of coffee in “the cafe.”
Our new Target is a rather fancy one. The parking and the “courtyard” are on the first floor. The “cafe” is on the second floor and looks out over the courtyard. I use the term “cafe” loosely. They sell hot dogs, popcorn, and Pizza Hut slices. However, a tiny Starbucks franchise is attached to the side, and the atmosphere is light and friendly. I ordered my “tall” coffee, sat down with my Target bag, and decided to write a scene in the trusty black-and-white-covered composition notebook that I always lug around in case inspiration hits.
Being a New Yorker, noise and chaos is usually calming. I have no problem writing when there is activity going on. I just couldn’t focus in Target. Some bratty kids were playing with the ice machine and the open mustard package sitting on the plastic chair adjacent to me was bugging me.
I decided to take a breather. I walked over to the railing and looked down into the courtyard. Customers were flooding in and out, some wheeled shopping cars, others with children in tow. The majority were women… mothers. Not surprisingly, my second floor position gave me a pretty good view of the finest cleavage that Redondo Beach had to offer. I could look right down the tops of women’s blouses. Hello, mothers! Some thin, some buxom, some size 2, some size 16, some in tight dresses, some in low cut blouses. I completely forgot about my screenplay and just enjoyed the view. This was better than looking down at the Grand Canyon. So many women! I glanced up and noticed that there was a video camera. Big Brother was watching. This changed everything.
“Is anyone watching me?” I wondered. “I must look like a total pervert!”
I certainly felt like a total pervert, especially when I realized that my Target shopping experience had aroused me to the point where I had to sit and wait another twenty minutes until I could leave.
What would my mother think if she saw me on the nightly news, arrested and dragged from the Redondo Beach Target “cafe,” still aroused from looking down the blouses of mothers shopping for Pampers for their children!
Tonight on America’s Most Wanted
“Redondo Beach is a sleepy town on the coast near Los Angeles. It is a family-oriented town where children go to church and everyone is polite. But every community has their bad apples, the underbelly and perverts who walk the street. One of the favorite Saturday activities in this pleasant beach community’s is for mothers and their children to go to the local Target for some fun, relaxation, and shopping. Little do the unsuspecting mothers know, that in the cafe, is Neilochka Kramer, the lowest form of pervert, ogling women like one-dimensional sex objects when he is supposed to be writing realistic female characters. “
Sophia got her Wii fit delivered. I said I would connect it and figure out how to use it, but I did the laundry instead. I was feeling passive-aggressive. Why are we getting a Wii JUST as I’m about to move out?
At 2AM, I turned on Showtime. There was some soft-core movie. I have no idea what it was about, but I watched a scene where a sexy woman in high heels (male screenwriters again!) comes into a bar/restaurant, asks the bartender to show her to the women’s room, and then the two have sex in the cleanest and well-organized restaurant kitchen in existence.
The minute the situation became “hot” and the woman stripped down to her bra, some annoying jazz music started to play on the soundtrack. It made me wonder what would happen if sex really caused this John Tesh-like music to play in our minds. Would I become impotent? I think I would rather BE impotent than have to endure this same music every time my pants came off. I certainly would want the sex to be over VERY QUICKLY just to stop the music. On the positive side, women would want it over fast, too.
“Come on. Stick it in and get it over with already! Just make this third-rate jazz music stop!”
This was my Saturday, May 24th.
Two Years Ago on Citizen of the Month: Driving in LA – In Two Parts