This article sheds a little bit more light on things. He'd tracked 30 songs while working on his sixth album (called From a Basement on the Hill), and was considering a double album, even. He'd worked with JSBX drummer Russell Simins and The Flaming Lips' Steven Drozd.
It was a steak knife to the heart, in his girlfriend's apartment.
According to a source, anyway. When the news was just coming out, only one source identified the woman who found him as Smith's girlfriend (which would explain why she had a key to the place). Everyone else just said female friend. And only two sources mentioned multiple wounds, whereas everyone else either said wound in the singular or pointed out a single chest wound as the cause of death. I'm sort of anxious to see what the investigation turns up. The death was Tuesday but news broke only on Thursday so the authorities kept a lid on it until next of kin was notified. There was no suicide note, or if there was, it's been hidden away or destroyed. Stabbing yourself multiple times in the chest doesn't denote a premeditated suicide, at least to me. It sounds more like an act of passion than anything else. Don't most people with knives kill themselves by slitting their wrists? If he did have only the single chest wound then an accident might not still be out of the question.
None of this makes the loss any easier, though.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
GOD DAMN
Elliott Smith is dead, an apparent suicide. Self-inflicted knife wound. This is something I dearly wish was a hoax, but it's not. Fuck.
This is really depressing news. I don't think I've felt this bad about a musician's death since Kurt Cobain. He was chronically depressed and battled alcohol and drug addiction, but it's such a fucking unfair shame that it had to end like this. I'm thinking now of so many things: the videos of Miss Misery and Son of Sam. Smith performing at the Oscars, dressed in a white tux with nothing but a guitar, as opposed to the lavish production numbers of Celine Dion and Michael Bolton. Realizing only after several months that "I Didn't Understand" is sung a cappella. Thinking that "Waltz # 1" could quite possibly be the greatest, saddest song ever written in the history of man. Bonding with Neva over both X/O and Either/Or, particularly "Waltz # 1" and "Say Yes." One of the last songs he recorded before his death was called "A Distorted Reality Is Now a Necessity to Be Free."
He had a terrific voice, that could go from a snarl to a lilting, reassuring whisper. He wrote some of the best lyrics I've ever heard/read, and really elevated songwriting for me in that regard. He played with song form and structure. His melodies were heartfelt, catchy, indelible. There's a nice line from the article above: "The songs floated like lullabies, though the lyrics could disrupt sleep for weeks."
Most of all, I'm remembering the night I was lucky enough to see him perform in Boston. It was glorious; I was happy like a kid who'd traveled halfway across the world and got to see one of his favorite musicians. I was standing up the whole evening, the whole day, actually, off to the side near the stage beside a post and a table, not trying to attract attention, alone but delirious. I was so fucking lucky to be there; read the email below for the full (somewhat long) story.
If you've never listened to him, do yourself a favor and get all of his albums; I don't think any of them will disappoint you. The standouts are Either/Or and X/O, though.
In the time before blogs, I sent this to the Heightsers mailing list on May 29, 2000. I was sending them emails about my month-long trip to the US:
HOW I ALMOST DIDN'T SEE ELLIOTT SMITH (or HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE LORD AGAIN)
Monday, May 15 -- The day before today, I wasted in Connecticut. So I wasn't able to reserve tickets, which, actually, I really should have done as soon as I set foot on US soil. Anyway, my family is supposed to be leaving tomorrow morning because my dad has overextended his vacation time, and my mom, working at a school, has upcoming enrolment to deal with. So it's their last day for shopping (and my last day of not paying for things myself). We go to another local mall, and then I'm dropped off at the subway station at about 430. Very early, considering the concert is 9, and doors open at 8. Even then, these things never start on time, and he had an opening act anyway.
My plan was simple. Get to The Roxy (where he was playing) first, get tickets, then go around to this store I knew that was in the area, which sold used CDs. So I took the T (Boston's subway, and first in the country) to Boylston, and come out next to this park where, as luck would have it, I chanced upon the graduation ceremonies of Emerson University. I figure, I'm early enough as it is, I have some free time, there might be a nice photo opportunity here, so I stay a few minutes to watch. The part where they all scream and throw their hats in the air is nice to see firsthand. This is my first time to see it happen, except of course my high school graduation, but that sucked because it was held in the evening and was inside the covered courts anyway. This was a beautiful (albeit cold and slightly windy) day. I must say, they're very LOUD. Screaming abounds, and continues for a good few minutes even after the tossing of hats, and the tumult subsides slowly. It's a very senti moment, because everyone's hugging each other, crying, or jumping up and down in pairs or groups. One girl even kisses me in her delirium, running around the grass. On the cheek, you perverts. After absorbing some more good vibes, I head towards The Roxy. When I get there, there's a small group of people outside of the building. A small knot forms in my stomach. I go up to the least-threatening-looking of the bunch, and ask if this line was for the show itself or for tickets. "For the show" was the reply. A little twinge of panic slices its way into my gut as I enter the Roxy and go upstairs, looking for a ticket booth. The walls are already posted with promotional pictures of Elliott Smith and the new album. When I get to the second floor, I see the ticket booth, with no one there. The lights aren't even on, so I have to go nearer to it to see the sign beside it, which I thought would say when it was open. When I read it, though, my heart freezes into ice.
ALL TICKETS
SOLD OUT
I'm in shock. Well, I should have expected it. I should have reserved tickets. Shouldawouldacoulda. I can't speak, and inside I'm kicking myself in the head. I go down the stairs with my heart heavy, and it doesn't even occur to me (as it does now) to at least steal a poster. What now, I think. Well, I should come back later, try and see if anybody's scalping tickets. It's worth a try. So, with a few minutes spent in shellshock and the onset of heavy depression out on the curb, I head for my other destination - the used CD store, Looney Tunes.
Turns out it's not in the area after all. Massachusetts Avenue is a long, long road. But I don't care. Depressed as I am, I decide to start walking since I'm really early anyway, and so I begin to walk, wallowing in self-pity. I pass the FAO Schwarz, even stopping by to check out the place. There's an entire section on Star Wars, and the people there just depress me further. It's nothing compared to the New York branch, of course. I walk further and pass 3 different Starbucks, 2 Au Bon Pains, several book stores (some of which I check out), the public library, and when I get to Looney Tunes, apparently it's at the END of Massachusetts Avenue. I figure I've walked about as far as from Ateneo to Greenhills. At Looney Tunes, I am able to get some CDs, then see a big-ass Tower beside me, and check it out too. Apparently, I was already on Newbury Street, though I didn't know it. I get a DVD (Short: 3; it was cheap), since I'm still depressed.
The Tower is beside the subway station so I decide to use that since I know I won't make it in time if I walk again. Besides, my feet were killing me, depression or not. I realize I've walked the length of 3 subway stops, which is pretty far. When I get to the Boylston street stop, I eat dinner at the nearby Subway.
It's a weird thing not to speak for an entire afternoon. I don't think I can really do it. Even if I tried, to spend so many hours just absolutely silent...it's just impossible. I'd end up singing a few tunes from my Last Song Syndrome. Or make up conversations, or at least maybe laugh at some people who look stupid.
Anyway, after dinner I go back to The Roxy, and it's about 9 PM already. I never have a watch so I'm never really aware of the time. It's also a nice excuse to ask pretty girls what time it is, even if you know perfectly well that they don't have watches too. But most of their voices suck. The line is pretty much gone, everyone's already upstairs. There's a cop car outside the place, and some cops hanging around, thinking there might be trouble. I position myself outside the place, trying to look as sad as possible. This is the routine, right? You hang around, and then someone approaches you asking if you'd like to buy a ticket? At least, so I figure. If the cops ask, I'll just say that I'm waiting for somebody to show up.
There are other people hanging around. Two girls, a group of students, and another solitary guy in an orange jacket. He's asking out loud, "Anybody got any tickets?", which was a better strategy than mine, but I somehow couldn't bring myself to do it, especially with the cops around. So I hang around, and the line becomes nonexistent. Everyone's already in, and the show should have started about now. Up until this point, I'd still been wallowing in my self-pity, and I had no intention of letting up. And while I thought I couldn't feel any worse, I was mistaken. As the minutes continued to tock by, I felt worse and worse, and the cold seemed colder. Then, one policeman started walking up to people, asking why were we hanging around here? Were we waiting for someone? Did we still want to buy tickets?
DID WE STILL WANT TO BUY TICKETS?! I ran up to him and asked "Are they still selling tickets?" He looks to the bouncer, who has a radio. He asks, listens to the reply, and says, "There are about five left." So of course I run for the door, bulky backpack and jacket and all, and head up the stairs. I'm stopped at the top by somebody. "ID?"
"Uh, I'm not a resident, but can I use my country's driver's license?"
"Do you have your passport with you?"
"No." I'm panicking, and I stutter out: "Look, I'm 19."
"When were you born?"
"1980. Besides, I won't be drinking anyway--"
"You won't be drinking? Oh, okay then, go right in." I get a red X on the back of my hand.
In my rush to get upstairs, I even accidentally hit someone. But I don't stop to say sorry, as I customarily do. After all, they might want tickets too. I get to the ticket booth, now manned, out of breath. The girl looks at me for a few seconds, and I manage, "Elliott Smith, please." (the booth was for other events as well) She, in turn, looks to the girl behind her, who is apparently in charge of the Elliott Smith tickets and already has her coat on, about to leave, and she says
"THERE'S ONE LEFT."
I slam my 16 dollars on the table and swoop it up.
The gig hadn't even started. Whiskey Biscuit was opening for him, and they weren't onstage yet. Meanwhile, I'm finally able to buy Figure 8. Unfortunately, they don't have Roman Candle, the only other Elliott Smith album not currently in my possession. I'm able to also get a video of the music video of Son of Sam, and steal another one for Quark.
Whiskey Biscuit are good with melody, but their singer needs some work. He's like a punk, but with a hick accent. The kind that's high-pitched and sings about lost loves.
Anyway, he comes on about a half hour after Whiskey Biscuit conclude their set, dressed in a simple black shirt, black cap, and corduroy pants (add respect points). The songs are, of course, mostly from Figure 8, since it's a promotional tour for a new album, and so I'm not able to sing along as I would have wanted. This would have proven awkward anyway, since I was alone. However, he sings some favorites, like "Bled White," "Bottle Up and Explode," and the newer songs are so good that I have no reason to complain. His third song was "Everything Means Nothing To Me," which is basically his voice, and a piano, until the end when the song erupts with drum accompaniment. This was one of my favorite performances, coming as it did after a noisy song ("Bled White"), where he just stopped, and held his guitar to the side while the pianist already began. If you've heard the song, you know how good it is. Don't get me wrong, every song he sang was excellent, and sang well, but some stood out. "Amity," which wasn't always my favorite song, featured a new arrangement and really impressed me. One time, during the fourteenth song, he interrupted himself when he said, mid-song, "FUCK! I CAN'T HEAR SHIT!" and waited while they got him a replacement guitar.
He had an encore, which is famous, I find out later, for being very intimate. This was no different. After a few minutes of the crowd's continuous applauding, he came out, alone, with nothing but a guitar, and sang the more intimate songs.
Here I have to digress a bit and address my appreciation for the crowd. Having been bred on insipid audiences back home who don't know when to shut up, this crowd was perfect. No assholes to shout during moments of silence, no immediate clapping when he ends a sentence. They knew when to be quiet, and even waited for Smith's prompting before they clapped. Maybe it was because he looked so fragile and vulnerable, and we didn't want to scare him away. I know I didn't. But God bless Boston, and its people. They were very well-behaved.
Another aside: most of Boston is young smart people, because it's a college town. In Boston proper alone, there are 19 universities, excluding Harvard, since that's in Cambridge. Perhaps this explains the excellent crowd. Lots of brainy people.
The best perk of the concert was Smith sang 3 brand new songs.
--
Rest in peace, man. God knows you deserve it.
This is horrible. I really feel like crying.
Elliott Smith is dead, an apparent suicide. Self-inflicted knife wound. This is something I dearly wish was a hoax, but it's not. Fuck.
This is really depressing news. I don't think I've felt this bad about a musician's death since Kurt Cobain. He was chronically depressed and battled alcohol and drug addiction, but it's such a fucking unfair shame that it had to end like this. I'm thinking now of so many things: the videos of Miss Misery and Son of Sam. Smith performing at the Oscars, dressed in a white tux with nothing but a guitar, as opposed to the lavish production numbers of Celine Dion and Michael Bolton. Realizing only after several months that "I Didn't Understand" is sung a cappella. Thinking that "Waltz # 1" could quite possibly be the greatest, saddest song ever written in the history of man. Bonding with Neva over both X/O and Either/Or, particularly "Waltz # 1" and "Say Yes." One of the last songs he recorded before his death was called "A Distorted Reality Is Now a Necessity to Be Free."
He had a terrific voice, that could go from a snarl to a lilting, reassuring whisper. He wrote some of the best lyrics I've ever heard/read, and really elevated songwriting for me in that regard. He played with song form and structure. His melodies were heartfelt, catchy, indelible. There's a nice line from the article above: "The songs floated like lullabies, though the lyrics could disrupt sleep for weeks."
Most of all, I'm remembering the night I was lucky enough to see him perform in Boston. It was glorious; I was happy like a kid who'd traveled halfway across the world and got to see one of his favorite musicians. I was standing up the whole evening, the whole day, actually, off to the side near the stage beside a post and a table, not trying to attract attention, alone but delirious. I was so fucking lucky to be there; read the email below for the full (somewhat long) story.
If you've never listened to him, do yourself a favor and get all of his albums; I don't think any of them will disappoint you. The standouts are Either/Or and X/O, though.
In the time before blogs, I sent this to the Heightsers mailing list on May 29, 2000. I was sending them emails about my month-long trip to the US:
HOW I ALMOST DIDN'T SEE ELLIOTT SMITH (or HOW I LEARNED TO LOVE THE LORD AGAIN)
Monday, May 15 -- The day before today, I wasted in Connecticut. So I wasn't able to reserve tickets, which, actually, I really should have done as soon as I set foot on US soil. Anyway, my family is supposed to be leaving tomorrow morning because my dad has overextended his vacation time, and my mom, working at a school, has upcoming enrolment to deal with. So it's their last day for shopping (and my last day of not paying for things myself). We go to another local mall, and then I'm dropped off at the subway station at about 430. Very early, considering the concert is 9, and doors open at 8. Even then, these things never start on time, and he had an opening act anyway.
My plan was simple. Get to The Roxy (where he was playing) first, get tickets, then go around to this store I knew that was in the area, which sold used CDs. So I took the T (Boston's subway, and first in the country) to Boylston, and come out next to this park where, as luck would have it, I chanced upon the graduation ceremonies of Emerson University. I figure, I'm early enough as it is, I have some free time, there might be a nice photo opportunity here, so I stay a few minutes to watch. The part where they all scream and throw their hats in the air is nice to see firsthand. This is my first time to see it happen, except of course my high school graduation, but that sucked because it was held in the evening and was inside the covered courts anyway. This was a beautiful (albeit cold and slightly windy) day. I must say, they're very LOUD. Screaming abounds, and continues for a good few minutes even after the tossing of hats, and the tumult subsides slowly. It's a very senti moment, because everyone's hugging each other, crying, or jumping up and down in pairs or groups. One girl even kisses me in her delirium, running around the grass. On the cheek, you perverts. After absorbing some more good vibes, I head towards The Roxy. When I get there, there's a small group of people outside of the building. A small knot forms in my stomach. I go up to the least-threatening-looking of the bunch, and ask if this line was for the show itself or for tickets. "For the show" was the reply. A little twinge of panic slices its way into my gut as I enter the Roxy and go upstairs, looking for a ticket booth. The walls are already posted with promotional pictures of Elliott Smith and the new album. When I get to the second floor, I see the ticket booth, with no one there. The lights aren't even on, so I have to go nearer to it to see the sign beside it, which I thought would say when it was open. When I read it, though, my heart freezes into ice.
ALL TICKETS
SOLD OUT
I'm in shock. Well, I should have expected it. I should have reserved tickets. Shouldawouldacoulda. I can't speak, and inside I'm kicking myself in the head. I go down the stairs with my heart heavy, and it doesn't even occur to me (as it does now) to at least steal a poster. What now, I think. Well, I should come back later, try and see if anybody's scalping tickets. It's worth a try. So, with a few minutes spent in shellshock and the onset of heavy depression out on the curb, I head for my other destination - the used CD store, Looney Tunes.
Turns out it's not in the area after all. Massachusetts Avenue is a long, long road. But I don't care. Depressed as I am, I decide to start walking since I'm really early anyway, and so I begin to walk, wallowing in self-pity. I pass the FAO Schwarz, even stopping by to check out the place. There's an entire section on Star Wars, and the people there just depress me further. It's nothing compared to the New York branch, of course. I walk further and pass 3 different Starbucks, 2 Au Bon Pains, several book stores (some of which I check out), the public library, and when I get to Looney Tunes, apparently it's at the END of Massachusetts Avenue. I figure I've walked about as far as from Ateneo to Greenhills. At Looney Tunes, I am able to get some CDs, then see a big-ass Tower beside me, and check it out too. Apparently, I was already on Newbury Street, though I didn't know it. I get a DVD (Short: 3; it was cheap), since I'm still depressed.
The Tower is beside the subway station so I decide to use that since I know I won't make it in time if I walk again. Besides, my feet were killing me, depression or not. I realize I've walked the length of 3 subway stops, which is pretty far. When I get to the Boylston street stop, I eat dinner at the nearby Subway.
It's a weird thing not to speak for an entire afternoon. I don't think I can really do it. Even if I tried, to spend so many hours just absolutely silent...it's just impossible. I'd end up singing a few tunes from my Last Song Syndrome. Or make up conversations, or at least maybe laugh at some people who look stupid.
Anyway, after dinner I go back to The Roxy, and it's about 9 PM already. I never have a watch so I'm never really aware of the time. It's also a nice excuse to ask pretty girls what time it is, even if you know perfectly well that they don't have watches too. But most of their voices suck. The line is pretty much gone, everyone's already upstairs. There's a cop car outside the place, and some cops hanging around, thinking there might be trouble. I position myself outside the place, trying to look as sad as possible. This is the routine, right? You hang around, and then someone approaches you asking if you'd like to buy a ticket? At least, so I figure. If the cops ask, I'll just say that I'm waiting for somebody to show up.
There are other people hanging around. Two girls, a group of students, and another solitary guy in an orange jacket. He's asking out loud, "Anybody got any tickets?", which was a better strategy than mine, but I somehow couldn't bring myself to do it, especially with the cops around. So I hang around, and the line becomes nonexistent. Everyone's already in, and the show should have started about now. Up until this point, I'd still been wallowing in my self-pity, and I had no intention of letting up. And while I thought I couldn't feel any worse, I was mistaken. As the minutes continued to tock by, I felt worse and worse, and the cold seemed colder. Then, one policeman started walking up to people, asking why were we hanging around here? Were we waiting for someone? Did we still want to buy tickets?
DID WE STILL WANT TO BUY TICKETS?! I ran up to him and asked "Are they still selling tickets?" He looks to the bouncer, who has a radio. He asks, listens to the reply, and says, "There are about five left." So of course I run for the door, bulky backpack and jacket and all, and head up the stairs. I'm stopped at the top by somebody. "ID?"
"Uh, I'm not a resident, but can I use my country's driver's license?"
"Do you have your passport with you?"
"No." I'm panicking, and I stutter out: "Look, I'm 19."
"When were you born?"
"1980. Besides, I won't be drinking anyway--"
"You won't be drinking? Oh, okay then, go right in." I get a red X on the back of my hand.
In my rush to get upstairs, I even accidentally hit someone. But I don't stop to say sorry, as I customarily do. After all, they might want tickets too. I get to the ticket booth, now manned, out of breath. The girl looks at me for a few seconds, and I manage, "Elliott Smith, please." (the booth was for other events as well) She, in turn, looks to the girl behind her, who is apparently in charge of the Elliott Smith tickets and already has her coat on, about to leave, and she says
"THERE'S ONE LEFT."
I slam my 16 dollars on the table and swoop it up.
The gig hadn't even started. Whiskey Biscuit was opening for him, and they weren't onstage yet. Meanwhile, I'm finally able to buy Figure 8. Unfortunately, they don't have Roman Candle, the only other Elliott Smith album not currently in my possession. I'm able to also get a video of the music video of Son of Sam, and steal another one for Quark.
Whiskey Biscuit are good with melody, but their singer needs some work. He's like a punk, but with a hick accent. The kind that's high-pitched and sings about lost loves.
Anyway, he comes on about a half hour after Whiskey Biscuit conclude their set, dressed in a simple black shirt, black cap, and corduroy pants (add respect points). The songs are, of course, mostly from Figure 8, since it's a promotional tour for a new album, and so I'm not able to sing along as I would have wanted. This would have proven awkward anyway, since I was alone. However, he sings some favorites, like "Bled White," "Bottle Up and Explode," and the newer songs are so good that I have no reason to complain. His third song was "Everything Means Nothing To Me," which is basically his voice, and a piano, until the end when the song erupts with drum accompaniment. This was one of my favorite performances, coming as it did after a noisy song ("Bled White"), where he just stopped, and held his guitar to the side while the pianist already began. If you've heard the song, you know how good it is. Don't get me wrong, every song he sang was excellent, and sang well, but some stood out. "Amity," which wasn't always my favorite song, featured a new arrangement and really impressed me. One time, during the fourteenth song, he interrupted himself when he said, mid-song, "FUCK! I CAN'T HEAR SHIT!" and waited while they got him a replacement guitar.
He had an encore, which is famous, I find out later, for being very intimate. This was no different. After a few minutes of the crowd's continuous applauding, he came out, alone, with nothing but a guitar, and sang the more intimate songs.
Here I have to digress a bit and address my appreciation for the crowd. Having been bred on insipid audiences back home who don't know when to shut up, this crowd was perfect. No assholes to shout during moments of silence, no immediate clapping when he ends a sentence. They knew when to be quiet, and even waited for Smith's prompting before they clapped. Maybe it was because he looked so fragile and vulnerable, and we didn't want to scare him away. I know I didn't. But God bless Boston, and its people. They were very well-behaved.
Another aside: most of Boston is young smart people, because it's a college town. In Boston proper alone, there are 19 universities, excluding Harvard, since that's in Cambridge. Perhaps this explains the excellent crowd. Lots of brainy people.
The best perk of the concert was Smith sang 3 brand new songs.
--
Rest in peace, man. God knows you deserve it.
This is horrible. I really feel like crying.
Friday, October 17, 2003
I realize that I haven’t written anything creative in a long while. Nothing substantial, anyway. Not to denigrate my recent projects. I think I did okay with both First Time and Captain Barbell, but they were both projects with clearly defined parameters: one had to have a girl getting devirginized, and the other was a remake of a character with his own history, powers, continuity, etc. And both were commissioned works. No, what I mean is I haven’t written anything purely for myself, to satisfy no one but me, in a long time. Where I can do anything I like. I thought I’d take the chance again, but it’s scary. I’m out of practice.
So I’m thinking of getting ideas from other people. Collaborating. Primarily, comics. At least, right now. There are some film ideas that are in various stages of development, but those can wait. I’m sort of excited to go back to writing for comics since I’ve been away from it for too long. I’m asking all sorts of people for their portfolios to get an idea of what they’d like to do, what they’d be good at, or just for inspiration.
So while I am writing for myself, I am also, in a way, writing for other people. The artists. Because I don’t want to simply hand them a script and wait for the art to return, I want them to become involved in the story and its creation, I want them to be enthusiastic about it. Also, I think it’ll be very interesting to see what I come up with in collaboration with others as opposed to merely working by myself. Should be surprising. At the very least, the prospect is exciting because I’ll be working with some people who I’m big fans of, and I feel that they’re truly talented.
And right as I was finishing writing this, I got asked to co-write another remake. But one that I was thinking about before Barbell even came my way. Ah, such is life… :)
--
Shotgunned through Douglas Coupland's All Families Are Psychotic in 2 days. Then, went through Hey Nostradamus! in a little over 24 hours. Whew. Haven't read a book in a day since... Choke, I think. Am now reading Chuck Palahniuk's Diary.
Saw Matchstick Men. It's terrific! Just a great little gem of a movie. :) Very nice surprise indeed. You think the con is the center of the plot, then you think it's the father-daughter relationship, then it's back to the con, but then, at the end, it's really about none of these things at all, and the center is what's been in front of you this whole time, and that's what makes it unique, to my mind. It very successfully plays several cons on the viewer, but as Roy says, "You didn't take it, I gave it to you."
So I’m thinking of getting ideas from other people. Collaborating. Primarily, comics. At least, right now. There are some film ideas that are in various stages of development, but those can wait. I’m sort of excited to go back to writing for comics since I’ve been away from it for too long. I’m asking all sorts of people for their portfolios to get an idea of what they’d like to do, what they’d be good at, or just for inspiration.
So while I am writing for myself, I am also, in a way, writing for other people. The artists. Because I don’t want to simply hand them a script and wait for the art to return, I want them to become involved in the story and its creation, I want them to be enthusiastic about it. Also, I think it’ll be very interesting to see what I come up with in collaboration with others as opposed to merely working by myself. Should be surprising. At the very least, the prospect is exciting because I’ll be working with some people who I’m big fans of, and I feel that they’re truly talented.
And right as I was finishing writing this, I got asked to co-write another remake. But one that I was thinking about before Barbell even came my way. Ah, such is life… :)
--
Shotgunned through Douglas Coupland's All Families Are Psychotic in 2 days. Then, went through Hey Nostradamus! in a little over 24 hours. Whew. Haven't read a book in a day since... Choke, I think. Am now reading Chuck Palahniuk's Diary.
Saw Matchstick Men. It's terrific! Just a great little gem of a movie. :) Very nice surprise indeed. You think the con is the center of the plot, then you think it's the father-daughter relationship, then it's back to the con, but then, at the end, it's really about none of these things at all, and the center is what's been in front of you this whole time, and that's what makes it unique, to my mind. It very successfully plays several cons on the viewer, but as Roy says, "You didn't take it, I gave it to you."
Sunday, October 12, 2003
Someone took the time to type my poem and put it on their blog (or lj, if you're anal). I don't know the guy (Paul Doble?). This is the second time it's happened (that I know of). Thanks to Alexis for the heads-up.
Friday, October 10, 2003
"Don't forget, with Lacuna, you can forget."
And here is the actual trailer, which is great, and just makes me more excited about it than I already am.
Some other great trailers have come out: Tim Burton's latest, Big Fish, which gives a kind of The Majestic feel. The Majestic was kinda bland, though not without its merits, but I don't want to get that feeling from a Tim Burton film. Some of the scenes remind me of Katherine Dunn's book Geek Love, which Burton was slated to adapt at one point, so it's looking rather doubtful he'll still do that. Also, a powerful trailer for Gus Van Sant's Elephant, and the latest from Alejandro Gonzalez-Inarritu, 21 Grams. It's a better year for film than I thought.
--
The Italian Job is a horrible film, way worse than I expected from director F. Gary Gray, with decent photography, and only the first 20 minutes takes place in Italy. It's a good ad for the Mini, though. I wanted one after watching it.
I'm currently enjoying Gabrielle Bell's When I'm Old and Other Stories. She's a real find. Good storyteller with good stories and an idiosyncratic art style that can change as needed. I can't remember the last time I was this impressed with an indy creator.
Also barrelling through Chris's copy of Douglas Coupland's All Families Are Psychotic, which goes straight onto my list of Favorite Book Titles. It's quite compelling, as I finished half the book in a day. Very difficult to put down. Got two books waiting for immediate consumption after this: Coupland's latest, Hey Nostradamus!, and Chuck Palahniuk's Diary.
--
Scary fact: California, by itself, is the world's fifth largest economy. And now Conan the T-800 is Governor. And he is a devout Republican. Who loves Bush. So we're looking at a 2nd Bush term.
We're fucked.
--
Go here. I don't have the words right now. See for yourself. And check out the health benefits.
And here is the actual trailer, which is great, and just makes me more excited about it than I already am.
Some other great trailers have come out: Tim Burton's latest, Big Fish, which gives a kind of The Majestic feel. The Majestic was kinda bland, though not without its merits, but I don't want to get that feeling from a Tim Burton film. Some of the scenes remind me of Katherine Dunn's book Geek Love, which Burton was slated to adapt at one point, so it's looking rather doubtful he'll still do that. Also, a powerful trailer for Gus Van Sant's Elephant, and the latest from Alejandro Gonzalez-Inarritu, 21 Grams. It's a better year for film than I thought.
--
The Italian Job is a horrible film, way worse than I expected from director F. Gary Gray, with decent photography, and only the first 20 minutes takes place in Italy. It's a good ad for the Mini, though. I wanted one after watching it.
I'm currently enjoying Gabrielle Bell's When I'm Old and Other Stories. She's a real find. Good storyteller with good stories and an idiosyncratic art style that can change as needed. I can't remember the last time I was this impressed with an indy creator.
Also barrelling through Chris's copy of Douglas Coupland's All Families Are Psychotic, which goes straight onto my list of Favorite Book Titles. It's quite compelling, as I finished half the book in a day. Very difficult to put down. Got two books waiting for immediate consumption after this: Coupland's latest, Hey Nostradamus!, and Chuck Palahniuk's Diary.
--
Scary fact: California, by itself, is the world's fifth largest economy. And now Conan the T-800 is Governor. And he is a devout Republican. Who loves Bush. So we're looking at a 2nd Bush term.
We're fucked.
--
Go here. I don't have the words right now. See for yourself. And check out the health benefits.
Monday, October 06, 2003
WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU'RE BORED
An example from the "graphic design playing" period, quoting one of the comics that dragged me back kicking and screaming into a final, conclusive, lifelong commitment to comics. Written, of course, by Alan Moore.
Dated Oct. 21, '99.
An example from the "graphic design playing" period, quoting one of the comics that dragged me back kicking and screaming into a final, conclusive, lifelong commitment to comics. Written, of course, by Alan Moore.
Dated Oct. 21, '99.
I've started downloading fonts again.
The other day Neva reminded me that I used to download fonts all the time, particularly when I was depressed. At the time I was still playing around with graphic design (and I do mean playing). It got to the point where I had something like 700 fonts on my computer. Sometime between then and now, my computer crashed and I lost everything. But the downloading fonts thing was something I forgot about until recently. So I have begun again, and am surprised that I still remember the names of some of my old favorites.
And the idea has struck me that you could use font selection as some kind of a personality test. I mean, the fonts I get now are probably much different than those I used to get. So if someone could analyze the choices and come to some conclusions, those would be interesting. Would it only be developing tastes, or would it have something to do with my outlook on life, attitude, etc.? What does it mean when I still love a particular font, and would now never use another font that I used to love?
--
Some new links for you: Rinzen and Floria Sigismondi. Sigismondi's one of those surreal visual stylists; she's directed some really good videos including Interpol's "Obstacle 1," Tricky's "Makes Me Wanna Die" (a nice disturbing video I recorded onto VHS back in the days...), one for Sigur Ros, but maybe the work most people have seen is the one for Christina Aguilera with all the butterflies ("Fight"? I don't remember the name of the song). My favorite video of hers is David Bowie's "Little Wonder." Amazing stuff. The photo gallery has a few pictures with Melissa Auf Der Maur, too. Sigh...
And it occurs to me that Aguilera's had some good video directors: David LaChappelle, my favorite photographer, Sigismondi, Jonas Akerlund...
The other day Neva reminded me that I used to download fonts all the time, particularly when I was depressed. At the time I was still playing around with graphic design (and I do mean playing). It got to the point where I had something like 700 fonts on my computer. Sometime between then and now, my computer crashed and I lost everything. But the downloading fonts thing was something I forgot about until recently. So I have begun again, and am surprised that I still remember the names of some of my old favorites.
And the idea has struck me that you could use font selection as some kind of a personality test. I mean, the fonts I get now are probably much different than those I used to get. So if someone could analyze the choices and come to some conclusions, those would be interesting. Would it only be developing tastes, or would it have something to do with my outlook on life, attitude, etc.? What does it mean when I still love a particular font, and would now never use another font that I used to love?
--
Some new links for you: Rinzen and Floria Sigismondi. Sigismondi's one of those surreal visual stylists; she's directed some really good videos including Interpol's "Obstacle 1," Tricky's "Makes Me Wanna Die" (a nice disturbing video I recorded onto VHS back in the days...), one for Sigur Ros, but maybe the work most people have seen is the one for Christina Aguilera with all the butterflies ("Fight"? I don't remember the name of the song). My favorite video of hers is David Bowie's "Little Wonder." Amazing stuff. The photo gallery has a few pictures with Melissa Auf Der Maur, too. Sigh...
And it occurs to me that Aguilera's had some good video directors: David LaChappelle, my favorite photographer, Sigismondi, Jonas Akerlund...
Sunday, October 05, 2003
Today I went over to Erwin Romulo's house and we were both photographed by his lovely and talented girlfriend Yvonne while in conversation in his driveway. And I saw his room which sort of looks like mine except it's bigger, with more space and shelves. He's got hundreds of books, all of which look interesting. He's a big Alan Moore fan, and has the original VG edition of Voice of the Fire and The Spirit Archives Vol. 1 which has a Moore introduction. He's got DVDs, VHS tapes, and CDs strewn about.
Best of all, he showed me a couple of comics that Yvonne did. One was from college. Both were good, but I liked the one from college better. It was bleaker than 8mm, if you can imagine that. Not a single ray of hope or sunshine in its sci-fi universe. Which is certainly not what I expected from the cheery and sunny Yvonne.
Meanwhile, recently Alexis told me about someone he knows who's also an Alan Moore fan, who got him to read the massive, yet unforgettable, From Hell.
See? EVERYBODY loves comics.
Best of all, he showed me a couple of comics that Yvonne did. One was from college. Both were good, but I liked the one from college better. It was bleaker than 8mm, if you can imagine that. Not a single ray of hope or sunshine in its sci-fi universe. Which is certainly not what I expected from the cheery and sunny Yvonne.
Meanwhile, recently Alexis told me about someone he knows who's also an Alan Moore fan, who got him to read the massive, yet unforgettable, From Hell.
See? EVERYBODY loves comics.
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
My desktop wallpaper for the past 2 months (and one of the pictures I'm proudest to have taken).
--
And here we go.
Sunday, September 28, 2003
Have You Forgotten?
by Red House Painters
i can't let you be
'cause your beauty won't allow me
wrapped in white sheets
like an angel from a bedtime story
shut out what they say
'cause your friends are fucked up anyway
and when they come around
somehow they feel up and you feel down
when we were kids
we hated things our parents did
we listened low
to casey kasem's radio show
that's when friends were nice
and to think of them just makes you feel nice
the smell of grass in spring
in october leaves covered everything
have you forgotten how to love yourself?
i still can't believe all the good things that you did for me
backyard summer pools
and christmas trees were bright and full
and the sentiment
of coloured mirrored ornaments
and the open drapes
looked out on frozen farmhouse landscapes
have you forgotten how to love yourself?
by Red House Painters
i can't let you be
'cause your beauty won't allow me
wrapped in white sheets
like an angel from a bedtime story
shut out what they say
'cause your friends are fucked up anyway
and when they come around
somehow they feel up and you feel down
when we were kids
we hated things our parents did
we listened low
to casey kasem's radio show
that's when friends were nice
and to think of them just makes you feel nice
the smell of grass in spring
in october leaves covered everything
have you forgotten how to love yourself?
i still can't believe all the good things that you did for me
backyard summer pools
and christmas trees were bright and full
and the sentiment
of coloured mirrored ornaments
and the open drapes
looked out on frozen farmhouse landscapes
have you forgotten how to love yourself?
Saturday, September 20, 2003
Mercy.
I cannot WAIT for this! I found an interview with Tarantino and just reading him describe it made my mouth water: they used three different kinds of blood. The main fight sequence ending Volume I took 8 weeks to shoot, whereas the entirety of Pulp Fiction took 10 weeks. There's 8 minutes of anime in Volume 1 alone (showing the origin of a character; there's some in Volume 2, too) done by the people who did Ghost in the Shell and Blood: The Last Vampire. The soundtrack is almost entirely composed of music from other films. It's basically his ultimate fanboy geek dream, an homage to all the genre flicks that made his youth worthwhile. Even something like The Bride (Uma Thurman's character) arriving in Tokyo, he wanted a specific look like he'd seen in Godzilla films, so they used the model set of the most recent Godzilla flick.
But Vol. 2's in February?! What the--? I think it's an interesting idea, having a film split into two parts. Not a trilogy. But part of me chafes at the fact that I'll basically be paying twice to see one film. Combined it's 3 hours, and hey, we all sat through Titanic, didn't we? Why not this, then?
--
"My wife asked me why I draw myself so fat. I told her it's because fat is funny. My daughter asked why I draw Mommy so skinny; I explained it's because Daddy's no fool."
-- Kyle Baker
Thursday, September 18, 2003
A TV distributor from Italy emailed me asking about Lino Brocka films, because they’re planning on airing a retrospective of his work. Which makes me glad to know there’s still interest in his work, from other countries, so long after his death. But it also reminds me that there hasn’t been much to speak of since he died, has there?
--
This is some great news: Fantagraphics are going to publish the entire run of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts, in nice handsome editions (hopefully something like their Krazy & Ignatz collections, which are beautiful but affordable). They’re aiming at two volumes a year, each volume containing two years’ worth of strips, so it’ll take 12 ½ years for the entire 50-year lifespan of Peanuts to be collected (Jesus, I’ll be 35). Some of my fondest strips are from the early period, when the children looked much different and Snoopy actually looked like a dog. This is probably because of that book my mom gave me in high school, her own Peanuts book from when she was a kid, which was published in the mid-60s. It’s still on my shelf.
The 25 volumes will be designed by Seth, who’s a die-hard Schulz fan, and who made one of the most moving tribute strips I saw upon Schulz’s death: he drew all the popular settings of Peanuts, sans people: the pitcher’s mound, Lucy’s psychiatry booth, Snoopy’s doghouse, and a lone football on the grass… almost brought a tear to mine eye.
And in other not-so-terribly-good news, it seems a sequel to Before Sunrise has just finished shooting. It takes place 9 years after their night in Venice. I like the movie a lot, but don’t feel it would be better served by a sequel. Maybe I’ll be proven wrong, I don’t know.
--
Passed by Libris the other day with Neva and got a great stash of books: Projections 5 & 8, Ethan Coen's book of poetry (The Drunken Driver Has The Right Of Way), Supertoys Last All Summer Long & Other Stories of the Future by Brian Aldiss, and scripts to Boogie Nights and Requiem for a Dream. All for 1100. It should be closer to 6000. Also, we were delighted to discover that they've begun to publish books as well. They're the ones behind 7 x 10, where 7 noted writers choose 10 influential poems. Neva got it and it looks great. Ernan recommended it too, and I'll be going through Neva's copy when she's done.
--
This is some great news: Fantagraphics are going to publish the entire run of Charles Schulz’s Peanuts, in nice handsome editions (hopefully something like their Krazy & Ignatz collections, which are beautiful but affordable). They’re aiming at two volumes a year, each volume containing two years’ worth of strips, so it’ll take 12 ½ years for the entire 50-year lifespan of Peanuts to be collected (Jesus, I’ll be 35). Some of my fondest strips are from the early period, when the children looked much different and Snoopy actually looked like a dog. This is probably because of that book my mom gave me in high school, her own Peanuts book from when she was a kid, which was published in the mid-60s. It’s still on my shelf.
The 25 volumes will be designed by Seth, who’s a die-hard Schulz fan, and who made one of the most moving tribute strips I saw upon Schulz’s death: he drew all the popular settings of Peanuts, sans people: the pitcher’s mound, Lucy’s psychiatry booth, Snoopy’s doghouse, and a lone football on the grass… almost brought a tear to mine eye.
And in other not-so-terribly-good news, it seems a sequel to Before Sunrise has just finished shooting. It takes place 9 years after their night in Venice. I like the movie a lot, but don’t feel it would be better served by a sequel. Maybe I’ll be proven wrong, I don’t know.
--
Passed by Libris the other day with Neva and got a great stash of books: Projections 5 & 8, Ethan Coen's book of poetry (The Drunken Driver Has The Right Of Way), Supertoys Last All Summer Long & Other Stories of the Future by Brian Aldiss, and scripts to Boogie Nights and Requiem for a Dream. All for 1100. It should be closer to 6000. Also, we were delighted to discover that they've begun to publish books as well. They're the ones behind 7 x 10, where 7 noted writers choose 10 influential poems. Neva got it and it looks great. Ernan recommended it too, and I'll be going through Neva's copy when she's done.
Monday, September 15, 2003
Scattershot sentences that don't necessarily have any context or connection to one another:
I caught the premiere of First Time last Saturday. Under the circumstances Lyle had to work under, I think he did the best he could. They did their damnedest to hide the lack of acting from most of the cast, so much so that it's almost unnoticeable (almost). The cinematography is gorgeous; I especially love Neil's work in Erwin's episode. And there's this great scene where Joel Torre takes off his clothes in the middle of Quezon Ave, where you have no doubt that you're watching an ACTOR, and not an artista, and it feels good that there are still people like him working in this industry.
As for my episode: most of what's there comes from my script, though most of the dialogue has been changed. There's a whole other character, who was added a day before filming began, who had no lines since she didn't exist, so lines were chopped up and given to her so she'd have something to say. But a whole lot's been cut out, or wasn't shot at all, and it was most of the bonding scenes, too. Not bondage, you filthy bastard. Bonding. As in all the scenes where I tried to flesh out characters. But this is not Lyle's fault; I know where the fault lies and it unfortunately can't be helped because without the perpetrators there wouldn't be a film to begin with. There are two massive changes to the ending (which, thus, isn't mine): one I object to, the other I'm ambivalent about. I really enjoyed the montage where Diane beats the shit out of Christian. :)
Lyle's one of the nicest guys you'll find working in film. I sure as hell don't hold anything against him; he kept me informed all the way, and with the amount of shit he had to go through, it's amazing he was able to maintain his sanity to the end (though he himself might contest this). For some reason, he really values the input of his writers (a rarity among directors, especially those working here), which was something I appreciated (as did Erwin and Lyndon) and will never forget. It was an honor and a pleasure working with him, and I would do so again in a heartbeat.
"Sana sa susunod, wholesome na yung script mo para mapanood namin."
-- Neva's friend Dang, said with a smile, just a few hours ago.
--
It just struck me what Friendster is: a giant hyperlinked slumbook. And I'm glad to say I finally hit my Friendster threshold. Which means that for a while, I admit, it was like a new toy and I played with it for hours on end, checking all the features and whatnot... remember when blogging was new, and you'd post every day, and check every chance you were online whether or not someone had left a comment, but now you could really give two shits and let it wait? Sorta like that. Though secretly I wish the charges would come in so I could just drop it altogether.
--
Read this. It's a little disturbing, in a good way...
--
There are some books at CCHQ that I keep looking at whenever I'm there, and When I'm Old & Other Stories by Gabrielle Bell was one of them. Finally I was able to get it last Saturday (and Neva got the handsome The Iron Wagon by Jason), and that night I check some websites for comics news and I discover... wait a minute...
She's cute!
--
Charles Bronson died about a week or two ago. Then, just the other day, Johnny Cash, and surprisingly, John Ritter. Ritter was only 54, which is younger than both my parents, and can be a little frightening fact if dwelled on for too long. He couldn't really escape the shadow of Three's Company, could he? Last thing I saw him in was Felicity, where he played Ben's dad. He was damn good, too.
--
Last week's bout with Badminton made me realize: I really, really miss Ping-pong. And I shall try to get my friends to bowl.
--
Had my first post-grad anxiety nightmare! People have been telling me about this dream for ages, but I had my first one last night. I was the only one in class who didn't study for an exam (under Mrs. Rodriguez, no less... I was horrible in her class because my Tagalog vocabulary is severely limited to conversational, though I was always interested, really I was...) and was really going to pieces. Plus, the exam was in a room that felt like it was underground, with bad lighting, and, of all things, Alia was my proctor! But not any kind of proctor, she sat beside me and talked to me as I was taking the test! Just striking up a conversation, or watching a TV that was for some reason beside her. And I just wanted her to give me the answers because I was sweating bullets. Then I woke up.
--
Cine Europa and the Australian Film Festival are coming up. If any of you want to waste an afternoon, let me know.
"This is Major Tom to Ground Control..."
I caught the premiere of First Time last Saturday. Under the circumstances Lyle had to work under, I think he did the best he could. They did their damnedest to hide the lack of acting from most of the cast, so much so that it's almost unnoticeable (almost). The cinematography is gorgeous; I especially love Neil's work in Erwin's episode. And there's this great scene where Joel Torre takes off his clothes in the middle of Quezon Ave, where you have no doubt that you're watching an ACTOR, and not an artista, and it feels good that there are still people like him working in this industry.
As for my episode: most of what's there comes from my script, though most of the dialogue has been changed. There's a whole other character, who was added a day before filming began, who had no lines since she didn't exist, so lines were chopped up and given to her so she'd have something to say. But a whole lot's been cut out, or wasn't shot at all, and it was most of the bonding scenes, too. Not bondage, you filthy bastard. Bonding. As in all the scenes where I tried to flesh out characters. But this is not Lyle's fault; I know where the fault lies and it unfortunately can't be helped because without the perpetrators there wouldn't be a film to begin with. There are two massive changes to the ending (which, thus, isn't mine): one I object to, the other I'm ambivalent about. I really enjoyed the montage where Diane beats the shit out of Christian. :)
Lyle's one of the nicest guys you'll find working in film. I sure as hell don't hold anything against him; he kept me informed all the way, and with the amount of shit he had to go through, it's amazing he was able to maintain his sanity to the end (though he himself might contest this). For some reason, he really values the input of his writers (a rarity among directors, especially those working here), which was something I appreciated (as did Erwin and Lyndon) and will never forget. It was an honor and a pleasure working with him, and I would do so again in a heartbeat.
"Sana sa susunod, wholesome na yung script mo para mapanood namin."
-- Neva's friend Dang, said with a smile, just a few hours ago.
--
It just struck me what Friendster is: a giant hyperlinked slumbook. And I'm glad to say I finally hit my Friendster threshold. Which means that for a while, I admit, it was like a new toy and I played with it for hours on end, checking all the features and whatnot... remember when blogging was new, and you'd post every day, and check every chance you were online whether or not someone had left a comment, but now you could really give two shits and let it wait? Sorta like that. Though secretly I wish the charges would come in so I could just drop it altogether.
--
Read this. It's a little disturbing, in a good way...
--
There are some books at CCHQ that I keep looking at whenever I'm there, and When I'm Old & Other Stories by Gabrielle Bell was one of them. Finally I was able to get it last Saturday (and Neva got the handsome The Iron Wagon by Jason), and that night I check some websites for comics news and I discover... wait a minute...
She's cute!
--
Charles Bronson died about a week or two ago. Then, just the other day, Johnny Cash, and surprisingly, John Ritter. Ritter was only 54, which is younger than both my parents, and can be a little frightening fact if dwelled on for too long. He couldn't really escape the shadow of Three's Company, could he? Last thing I saw him in was Felicity, where he played Ben's dad. He was damn good, too.
--
Last week's bout with Badminton made me realize: I really, really miss Ping-pong. And I shall try to get my friends to bowl.
--
Had my first post-grad anxiety nightmare! People have been telling me about this dream for ages, but I had my first one last night. I was the only one in class who didn't study for an exam (under Mrs. Rodriguez, no less... I was horrible in her class because my Tagalog vocabulary is severely limited to conversational, though I was always interested, really I was...) and was really going to pieces. Plus, the exam was in a room that felt like it was underground, with bad lighting, and, of all things, Alia was my proctor! But not any kind of proctor, she sat beside me and talked to me as I was taking the test! Just striking up a conversation, or watching a TV that was for some reason beside her. And I just wanted her to give me the answers because I was sweating bullets. Then I woke up.
--
Cine Europa and the Australian Film Festival are coming up. If any of you want to waste an afternoon, let me know.
"This is Major Tom to Ground Control..."
Thursday, September 11, 2003
Ahh, Friendster … didn't you used to be called Six Degrees (which is still up, but I haven't looked at it in such a long time that I recall neither my username nor my password)?
A few people asked me to join it back when it started up in April, and I resisted, but it's almost impossible to say no to Ate Cyn, so I relented and joined, but remained inactive. Then recently other people started bugging me about it, and it was people from high school, even grade school. Some friends who are now in the US. So, alright, I admit it, I'm now a friendster. Though, just for getting me back in touch with those high school/grade school friends, it's served its purpose, as far as I'm concerned.
I only found out more about it yesterday while talking with some friends. Sexy Man Mark "Lotsa" Lavin mentioned that it's supposed to be a dating service, but I don't think anyone I know is really using it as such. And that while it's all the rage on the West Coast, the East Coast hates the damn thing. Neva mentioned that too, and I'd read an article that Mischa linked, which sheds a little more light on it, and the bugs inherent in the site (it says Friendster beta on the homepage for a reason), and also discussed the impending arrival of charges (what, you thought it would stay free forever?).
It's a shame, though; I was thinking it'd be good karma to have Jesus Christ as a friend.
--
Was in Ateneo yesterday. Visited Ed Ibarra, my high school classmate and ex-Narda guitarist, now a guidance counselor. Saw Trinka, who came from Quark's shoot for Rivermaya. Found out Quark had a talk on screenwriting that afternoon, and I wanted to embarrass him slightly by showing up, but got waylaid at CCHQ since I hadn't been there in a long time, and Mikey and SM Mark Lavin showed up. Then we ended up killing time at The Old Spaghetti House, where Fullhouse used to be. Nice ambience, cool music, food was pretty good, too. Methinks I will be eating there often when I'm in the area.
Actually played badminton with some friends last night. I haven't played since high school. Woke up sore and aching, but surprisingly much less than I expected.
--
The Onion's great this week. This had me in stitches, and I'm sure Chris, at least, should get a kick out of this.
Added Gay to the links box. :)
And just as a reminder, Neva's poems can be found here. :) Though Poacher-Killed Deer is on poetry.com itself, where she not only got published in one of their print volumes, but was asked to be a judge last year. :)
And also because of her, I am enjoying the HELL out of David Bowie's Changes.
--
And no, I haven't forgotten what day it is. For the world, or a certain now-defunct group. Still, the vitriol in last year's post holds up, if not the current facts. If you only knew what Bush's administration has gotten away with since 9/11, you'd weep. And that's only for what has been discovered. Whatever they're keeping from us, it's much, much worse.
A few people asked me to join it back when it started up in April, and I resisted, but it's almost impossible to say no to Ate Cyn, so I relented and joined, but remained inactive. Then recently other people started bugging me about it, and it was people from high school, even grade school. Some friends who are now in the US. So, alright, I admit it, I'm now a friendster. Though, just for getting me back in touch with those high school/grade school friends, it's served its purpose, as far as I'm concerned.
I only found out more about it yesterday while talking with some friends. Sexy Man Mark "Lotsa" Lavin mentioned that it's supposed to be a dating service, but I don't think anyone I know is really using it as such. And that while it's all the rage on the West Coast, the East Coast hates the damn thing. Neva mentioned that too, and I'd read an article that Mischa linked, which sheds a little more light on it, and the bugs inherent in the site (it says Friendster beta on the homepage for a reason), and also discussed the impending arrival of charges (what, you thought it would stay free forever?).
It's a shame, though; I was thinking it'd be good karma to have Jesus Christ as a friend.
--
Was in Ateneo yesterday. Visited Ed Ibarra, my high school classmate and ex-Narda guitarist, now a guidance counselor. Saw Trinka, who came from Quark's shoot for Rivermaya. Found out Quark had a talk on screenwriting that afternoon, and I wanted to embarrass him slightly by showing up, but got waylaid at CCHQ since I hadn't been there in a long time, and Mikey and SM Mark Lavin showed up. Then we ended up killing time at The Old Spaghetti House, where Fullhouse used to be. Nice ambience, cool music, food was pretty good, too. Methinks I will be eating there often when I'm in the area.
Actually played badminton with some friends last night. I haven't played since high school. Woke up sore and aching, but surprisingly much less than I expected.
--
The Onion's great this week. This had me in stitches, and I'm sure Chris, at least, should get a kick out of this.
Added Gay to the links box. :)
And just as a reminder, Neva's poems can be found here. :) Though Poacher-Killed Deer is on poetry.com itself, where she not only got published in one of their print volumes, but was asked to be a judge last year. :)
And also because of her, I am enjoying the HELL out of David Bowie's Changes.
--
And no, I haven't forgotten what day it is. For the world, or a certain now-defunct group. Still, the vitriol in last year's post holds up, if not the current facts. If you only knew what Bush's administration has gotten away with since 9/11, you'd weep. And that's only for what has been discovered. Whatever they're keeping from us, it's much, much worse.
Tuesday, September 09, 2003
Maybe no one remembers, but I wrote about Alan Moore: Portrait of an Extraordinary Gentleman here, back in June.
Anyway, Ultrazine, the website that kind of kick-started the whole project that became the book, have apparently taken my post and used it on their website, translated into Italian, no less. It's on a page compiling comments on the book, and I'm on a list that includes Dave Gibbons (illustrator of Watchmen, the Martha Washington series, and the forthcoming The Originals), Stephen Parkhouse (illustrator of The Bojefferies Saga), John Coulthart (who works with Moore on his performance pieces and designs the CDs), Rich Johnston, George Khoury (whose The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore I am set to devour next) and Scott Morse (writer/illustrator of Soulwind, The Barefoot Serpent, Volcanic Revolver, etc.).
Which puts a great big smile on my face. Check out their website, it's pretty cool. I got a lot of stuff from them, and am glad that in some half-assed way they have been able to use something of mine.
Anyway, Ultrazine, the website that kind of kick-started the whole project that became the book, have apparently taken my post and used it on their website, translated into Italian, no less. It's on a page compiling comments on the book, and I'm on a list that includes Dave Gibbons (illustrator of Watchmen, the Martha Washington series, and the forthcoming The Originals), Stephen Parkhouse (illustrator of The Bojefferies Saga), John Coulthart (who works with Moore on his performance pieces and designs the CDs), Rich Johnston, George Khoury (whose The Extraordinary Works of Alan Moore I am set to devour next) and Scott Morse (writer/illustrator of Soulwind, The Barefoot Serpent, Volcanic Revolver, etc.).
Which puts a great big smile on my face. Check out their website, it's pretty cool. I got a lot of stuff from them, and am glad that in some half-assed way they have been able to use something of mine.
Thursday, September 04, 2003
What a great fucking cover. I’ve not seen this film, nor heard anything about it, I only know that Jeline has it and tried to lend it to me before but somethings happened and it never came to pass. Maybe sometime…
I have stumbled across the website of Nick Bertozzi. I don’t recall reading any of his works, but I like how he uses color.
Here are some other people who are inspiring visually (though that doesn’t mean they can’t inspire in other ways). Some do comics, illustration, writing, or a combination of all. I’ve probably mentioned them independently through the months.
Paul Pope
Brian Wood
Bill Sienkiewicz
Rian Hughes
Tomer Hanuka
James Jean
Carlos Segura
Arnold Arre
Cynthia Bauzon
There are also some purty pictures at Phil Noto’s site (he draws women especially well, and is also interesting with color), Kaare Andrews’s, and Ashley Wood’s.
There’s a lot of others, of course: Dave McKean doesn’t really have an official site, nor does Chip Kidd, and there are a lot more indie kids who I’ll get to eventually.
--
Go here to see what all the kids are wearing these days. And the Lost in Translation trailer is up.
Wednesday, September 03, 2003
And here is the bad PS: Lyndon and I (maybe Quark, but I'm not sure) were mentioned in an Abante article about how the creative team of Captain Barbell has changed. But it seems to sound like we were replaced because our work sucked.
And during the First Time presscon, when Lyle mentioned the 3 writers (Lyndon, myself, and Erwin Romulo), some "reporters" assumed that Lyle had brought on Erwin to "fix" our script (we independently wrote an episode each).
So I'm wondering if we already have a reputation for bad scriptwriting, when not a single one of the films we've worked on has even come out yet.
Ah, showbiz... FUCK YOU UP YOUR STUPID ASS.
And during the First Time presscon, when Lyle mentioned the 3 writers (Lyndon, myself, and Erwin Romulo), some "reporters" assumed that Lyle had brought on Erwin to "fix" our script (we independently wrote an episode each).
So I'm wondering if we already have a reputation for bad scriptwriting, when not a single one of the films we've worked on has even come out yet.
Ah, showbiz... FUCK YOU UP YOUR STUPID ASS.
Tuesday, September 02, 2003
Confession Time!
Big Thing WAS Captain Barbell. Lyndon Santos and I had been tasked to write the new Captain Barbell film for Viva. Which was, honestly, a sort-of exciting proposition for me, not simply because of the comics/superhero angle (actually, superheroes as a genre doesn’t particularly excite me any longer) but because I actually DO have fond memories of the ’86 Herbert Bautista-Edu Manzano flick (I was six at the time, what can I say).
On the day I found out about it, there was already a meeting that evening, where we hashed out a plot in a little under 2 hours, mostly dictated by Ogie Alcasid, who at the time was the only star attached to the project (he was to play Tenteng, though none of us could remember the name, so we got it wrong and his character was named Enteng). I wasn’t exactly excited about this plot, which, while not bad per se, was a little traditional and obvious, so I drafted a different plot with some themes I thought would be relevant to Mars’s original work on the character. Thankfully the powers-that-be liked it, and we went to work with more research (under a ridiculous deadline). We went through some articles about the old comics material, Mars himself, etc. This research was used in a thesis by friends of mine, so I was glad it was close at hand. We were also given photocopies of old Barbell comics, written by Ravelo with other artists.
We wrote the first draft in something like 3 days. All at Quark’s house, using a pretty detailed outline we had come up with a week or two previous. Quark, at the time, had been attached to the project, even when it was announced as an entry to December’s Film Festival.
Anyway, I liked what we came up with. It needed some more tweaking, but I felt it was good, and could be good, and I was glad Quark was the director because we were worried about it falling into the hands of someone who wouldn’t get the comedy. There were nods to Mars everywhere, from locations to character names. Thematically, I thought we had the spirit of some of his original stories, but contemporized and, I suppose, re-imagined. We even had the continuities merged, where, out of fondness and respect, this film acknolwedged the events that transpired in CB’86. We even had a cameo appearance by Herbert.
And here our troubles began.
Quark was under pressure with Keka. He had a playdate/deadline that he had to stick to, which he met, but meant he was being rode hard. He was working almost everyday for several weeks, and it’s a miracle he didn’t get sick. Still, after this, he was understandably wanting a break and passed on Barbell.
Another reason is that they were taking so long on casting, and the “deadline” was looming. If this was a Film Fest entry, it needed to come out in December. And this has more effects, understandably, than your typical film. It was getting late, and the schedule looked like it was going to be ridiculous again, which none of us wanted (least of all Quark).
So. The project was given to Mac Alejandre to direct. And I guess he didn’t like our script, because he gave it to a friend of his to rewrite. Us writers weren’t told, I had to find out by talking to the producer and asking her about it on the set of another film. The new script has 3 super-powered villains (Daga-Man, Freezy, and some Pyro-like guy; this reminds me of that cartoon show with Spider-Man, Iceman, and Firestar). We had one John Constantine-like bad guy (the character that Epi said he enjoyed).
Anyway, it’s September, and they still haven’t started shooting. The cast changed almost every other week. Ogie as T/Enteng was solid, but Barbell went through (at first) Richard Gomez, then Ogie himself (which we all preferred, actually; Dolphy did it like this), then Marc Nelson, then Borgie Manotoc, then, out of the blue, Bong Revilla, and just the other day I found out that it’s now, get this, Edu Manzano. Again. The love interest was Nina, then Issa Calsado, then Jolina Magdangal, and now I think it’s Regine Velasquez.
So don’t draw any conclusions from me. Captain Barbell may be Redford White by the time it comes out.
They’re competing with Gagamboy from Regal, and Fantastic Man (Lastikman 2, basically) from Octo.
The possible happy ending is that, if they’re starting from a new script, Quark and us can still use our draft for Barbell 2, should they decide to make one. But I’m not holding my breath or anything.
I actually do hope that Barbell makes money, if only so we could do ours. At this point, though, I’m sort of glad that I’m not involved with the project any longer because it looks like their schedule will be murder, and good luck to them.
A happy PS is that I downloaded some issues of Alan Moore’s Miracleman the other day, and discovered that his treatment of the character’s transformation to and fro his alter ego was similar to how we treated it in our Barbell script: by focusing on the reactions of other people. Miracleman is a seminal series he wrote in the early ‘80s, that I hadn’t read until now.
And yes, the transformer above has nothing to do with Barbell whatsoever. Ain't it cool, though? :)