Christy and Paul 2013

A year without internet, media and junkfood. Lord, help us.

Month: January, 2013

What Happened to The Rock as Johnny Bravo?

the_rock_is_johnny_bravo_by_krocrasher-d940j8tI’m not sure how many people remember this, but a few years ago it was announced that Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson was starring in a live action Johnny Bravo movie. How in the blue hell did this NOT happen? Is The Rock too busy filming Fast and the Furious sequels? This would have been incredible!

I’m an admitted fan of anything created by Seth Mcfarlane, but there’s a place deep in my heart for the original Animation Domination block on Cartoon Network. Powerpuff Girls, Ed, Edd and Eddy, Cow and Chicken, I am Weasel, and my favorite, Johnny Bravo! All of the other cartoons were slightly too geeky for my tastes, but Johnny Bravo and his Elvis impersonations hit that comedy sweet spot. The Rock would have been PERFECT as Johnny. Yes, I realize he doesn’t have hair. News flash, Bruce Willis has been bald since he was 14, but people still let him make movies. Just shave Cameron Diaz and glue her bob to the Rock’s scalp.  Cast Kathy Bates as Momma and watch the money truck back on up.

I realize that the time has past for Johnny Bravo: The Movie. I doubt there was ever a large enough audience for this to be a feature, but it would make for one hell of a movie to air on TBS at 4pm on a Saturday afternoon. You can’t make this feature now because the late 90s were a simpler, sweeter time. Now people want their comedy edgy, and Rated R. In other words, people have gotten so stupid, they can only laugh at foul language or Will Ferrel punching a baby. (To be fair, that was hilarious. I count myself as one of the stupid, brainwashed masses. I R Baboon) Johnny Bravo could have been a return to wholesome family comedies like George of the Jungle. Brendan Fraser could’ve come out of the Witness Protection Program to play the villain.

If Cartoon Network can read this, then get Dwayne on the phone. Make it happen, Cap’n. Once that movie makes a billion, get to work on The Powerpuff Girls film and have fun dominating the world. If you smelllll-alalalow, what the Paul is cookin’!

Paul’s secret shame is that he still loves professional wrestling 😦


Korean Barbecue for $5 a Person

Okay, if you want to get technical, we had a lot of ingredients at the house already, so the cost would be significantly higher if you didn’t have say, a butt-ton of sesame oil, a gas burner and a Korean BBQ grill. But if you love Korean BBQ and have no patience for crowds or waiters that dole out meat like it came from their pet cow Mandy, maybe it’s time to invest in a lil’ KBBQ set-up of your own.

This particular KBBQ experience was our best yet. We managed to maintain the right temperature, hastily filled vacant grill space, and we avoided an over-abundance of banchan (Korean side dishes), which meant no sad, ignored dishes at the end of the meal.

WARNING: It might be a terrible idea to grill indoors. I don’t know. I do know that repeated grilling tends to coat the entire room in a thin film of grease, but that’s between you and your landlord. We put a towel over Paul’s new iMac out of courtesy (to Steve Jobs, not Paul).

Enjoy the extra capital letters, on me. ^_~

Rice Paper & Radish Wrappers

Rice Paper ($2.49) & Radish Wrappers (Regular and Wasabi) ($.99 ea.)

Gas Burner... Not sure if you're supposed to use these indoors. Probably not.

Gas Burner. Fire Risk? MAYBE!

Photo Jan 26, 8 04 38 PM

More Than Enough Meat For Us Three Humans. ($9.17)

Boiling Rice Paper

Boiling Rice Paper. 5 Minutes Should Do It.

Photo Jan 26, 8 45 15 PM

Cutting Rice Paper Into Squares In The Dumbest Way Possible?

For a lovely, sesame-oily dipping sauce, COMBINE:

Bout Time for More Sesame Oil

Bout Time For More Sesame Oil. It’s Cheaper To Buy It In Huge Quantities, But What Isn’t?


Korean Chili Pepper Flakes

Korean Chili Pepper Flakes!


Handy Dandy Kosher Salt Holder, a la Alton Brown.

Handy Dandy Kosher Salt Holder, a la Alton Brown.


Photo Jan 26, 8 54 05 PM

Ohh, Mama…

For Strong-Flavored Meat Paste, MIX:

Photo Jan 26, 8 39 39 PM

Fermented Soybean Paste


Chili Paste

Chili Paste

Figure out your proportion preference:

Photo Jan 26, 8 42 13 PM

Salty, Spicy Goodness.

Since we couldn’t drink Coke, we picked up a few of these:

Concentrated Water Flavory Stuff. Found it on sale at HK for $1. We bought 18.

Concentrated Water Flavor Stuff. Found Them On Sale At HK Market For $.99.
The Next Day, We Went Back And Bought 15 More…

Photo Jan 26, 8 51 21 PM

The Bottle Said To Add 9 Parts Water To 1 Part Syrup, But This Was Enough For Me.

Photo Jan 26, 8 51 58 PM

F*ck you, MIO!

Photo Jan 26, 8 54 53 PM


Photo Jan 26, 8 55 20 PM

Can You Spot Paul’s Baby Chopsticks?

Okay, starting to get sick of gratuitous capitals.


Love… ($1.99, but we only used 1/3 bag)

Photo Jan 26, 8 58 46 PM

Sesame Oil + Garlic in the Middle

Photo Jan 26, 9 02 33 PM

Garlic Porn.

Photo Jan 26, 9 02 39 PM

Not Pretty, but Smear Rice Paper and Radish Wraps w/ Meat Paste.

Photo Jan 26, 9 02 13 PM

Dip meat in Sesame Oil Dip.

Photo Jan 26, 9 02 50 PM

Add Meat and Garlic (Careful, it’s Hot!) and Enjoy!

Oh, god… I want Korean Barbecue! I can’t believe I was old enough to vote before I got to experience this. If there’s a hedonist bone in your body, KBBQ will change your life. It may be the reason I’m proud to be Korean.

Total cost of items purchased for this particular KBBQ (meat, full bag of garlic, rice and radish wraps, one bottle drink concentrate): $16.62/3 people = $5.54 

Another super-long photopost by Christy

Klondike Bar

I can’t begin to express how much I loved the “What Would Yo Do for a Klondike Bar?” commercials. I must also admit that Klondike Bars are awful. Perfect marketing, but the execution was just a bit off on Klondike’s part. I’m not a fan of minty things 😦 Also, when I was a child the silver wrappers reminded me of soap.

Tonight, I’ve been thinking about what I would do for a Klondike Bar, if I actually wanted one. Or something I wanted just as bad as the crack addicts they cast in those commercials. I suppose it would be a reese cup. Seriously, those things are scum-diddly-umptious. A reese cup, surrounded by fried chicken. You know what? A deep-fried reese cup, being held by Dianna Agron from Glee. Deluxe!

So what would Paul do for a deep-fried, peanutty-buttery, reese cup, held by the blonde perfection that is Dianna Agron? Well let’s see…

I’d steal Ne-yo’s hat, revealing the portly 40yr old underneath.

I’d perform a lengthy strip-tease for Betty White. To hell with it, for Betty, I’d go the full monty.

I’d shave my head, leaving only the NBC peacock logo etched on my scalp.

I’d drink out of the same glass as Lindsay Lohan.

I’d attend a Nickelback concert.

I’d spend a full day at Costco, wearing only my Scooby-Doo costume.

I’d show up at Netflix’s corporate office, demanding a VHS copy of Ernest Scared Stupid.

I’d sit outside the Kodak Theater during the Academy Awards, singing Beyonce’s “If I were a Boy”.

I’d poke Michael Phelps in the chest, and call him “Guppy Boy”.

I’d show up to the White House, demanding to see Obama’s third grade report card.

I’d go to the gym and call every roided freak “Chelsea Clinton”, until I was beaten senseless.

I’d get on the PA system of my local Ralphs, and sing the “Thong Song”.

During that Ralph’s trip, I’d ask every sweet old lady where she purchased her ripe melons.


I’d do all of the above, and so much more. I guess it all comes down to being desperate. It’s been a while since I’ve had junk food, and I’d possibly pass out if I was offered a bowl of ice cream right now. It’s been a month now without Netflix or tv of any kind, and the desperation for 24/7 entertainment is slowly leaving me, and that’s a good thing. In it’s place is the desperation to keep producing, keep writing. I’ve wanted this ability to constantly pump out new material as long as I can remember, and all it took was giving up watching American Dad every night. Fair trade. 


Paul anticipates a restraining order from Ms. Agron any day now. I swear that’s not me in her bushes, it’s just a freakishly tall bird. A freakishly tall bird wearing Scooby-Doo pjs.



What if?

Tonight, I found out a guy I graduated high school with had died. Whenever I hear about things like this, I can’t help but get down and reflective. There’s no greater cosmic kick to the groin to get your act together, than someone your age dying. Also, it made me wonder where I’d be if I still lived in my hometown.

I’m a pretty lucky guy. That luck is usually outdone by how lazy I am. I could win the lottery and forget to cash the check, until it was too late. I was a God awful student in high school. I’m not a morning person, so classes I had before noon where slept through. Any class after noon was blown off, because I was dreading going to work that afternoon. It was a vicious cycle. My GPA ranked me around 40th out of 60-70 students.  I was well on my way to working at Piggly Wiggly forever, until I did well on the ACT and got offered a few scholarships, making college possible. Fellow students were sure I’d cheated, but those close to me knew I was far too lazy to pull of anything like that.

So anyways, I was one test away from ruining my life. I lucked out. I probably don’t deserve the life I have now, but I’m thankful for it. I thought this would be an interesting post to guess what a typical day in my life would be, if I still lived in my hometown.

First off, I’d be fat as hell. My family comes from some pretty hefty stock. Being tall, I’ve always been singled out for being skin and bones. I was fed like a king whenever I wanted it. I’m 25 now, so that would have given me 7 years of nothing but Crisco and cornbread. I’d be the prize hog at the county fair. I’d have to introduce myself as Abner. So, around 7am , I’d waddle my rotund arse out of couch. Please don’t read over that, I said couch. All males in my family eventually wind up sleeping on my Grandmaw’s couch for a few years. My grandmaw lives about 100yards away from my parents, so I assume I’d be living with her, due to some hair-brained idea of independence from my parents. That couch is like Vietnam, if you’re an able bodied young man in my family, you wind up on that couch. My little brother has been on his tour of couch duty for the last 3 years, so at least I’d know someone there. 

Since, in this alternate universe, I wouldn’t have attended a university, I would have gone to community college. Nobody was saving money for my education, so I would have been footing the bill. Therefore, I would have worked at the local Piggly Wiggly for another few years. I already worked there for 3 years of high school, so by that time I’d presumably be a manager. If you’ve got a cushy job like that in my hometown, you don’t leave it. After 2-3 years of community college, I would have settled in nicely at Piggly Wiggly and have been  ready to die there someday. 

I think creative people always have the urge to pursue their interests, so I like to think that during my down time, I’d be a freelance writer for the local paper, The Sand Mountain Reporter. I’ve always had a passion for sports, so when I wasn’t stocking the shelves at the store, I’d be covering the local football games and practices.

That would by my typical day, bagging groceries for little old ladies, then writing stories about how their grandsons performed at the local homecoming game. As for my evenings, those would be spent at the Church.  My family has always had a pretty good foothold in the leadership of our church. Fellow churchgoers always mentioned how nice of a young man I was, and how they had big hopes for my future. My mother told me she believed it was my purpose in life to be a preacher.

So there I’d be, a young grocer/Man of God, out on the prowl. In my community, most guys who aren’t attached at the hip with a girl throughout high school, get married around 23-25. It seemed that the guys were always dating girls about 3 years younger than them, because all the good ones their age were taken, I suppose. I’d have found a nice young lass in my church congregation, willing to be a preacher’s wife. Believe it or not, it’s a pretty powerful community position, so I’d have my pick of Laura Bush wannabees, looking for nothing more than the opportunity to give fellow churchgoers the old stink-eye during Sunday Service.

When I wasn’t at the church, my free time would be spent watching tv. Nobody in my hometown has found the joy of truly high speed internet, so streaming Netflix or Hulu would be impossible. Instead, I’d get addicted to cable television like everyone else. I have no idea what the hell Duck Dynasty is, but I’m willing to bet I’d love it. At the end of a long day, I’d fall asleep around 11pm, and get ready to do the whole thing again tomorrow.  I’d like to think I wouldn’t kill myself, but I can’t be sure.

Like I said, I’m lucky. Lucky to have had the life experiences college brought me. If I had continued to live in my hometown, I might be a lot closer to getting into heaven, due to my involvement in the church. However, I’d just as likely go to hell, because of the hatred built in my heart. An unhealthy number of people where I’m from are incredibly racist. This makes no sense, because there are ZERO black people there. That probably has something to do with how racist everyone is. I guess people hate what they don’t know, and I knew nothing about black people. So, as sad as it is to say, there’s a chance I’d become racist. Also, I’d be incredibly anti-homosexuals. Leaving high school, I still believed that homosexuality was a sin, and gay people were basically mocking God with their choices. I was a damned idiot. Whenever the topic came up during my freshman year of college, I clammed up, knowing that nobody wanted to hear my thoughts. I hadn’t been informed on the topic of homosexuality. There weren’t any in my school or community, as far as I knew. During college, I got to know gay students and people of multiple races, and learned to realize just how stupid I’d been. I’d probably hate the guy I would’ve become in that town. Except for the sports writer gig, that would be pretty nice.

So yes, I’m thankful for standardized testing, and for the life I’ve lived so far. I love my family and would gladly kill for them, but I wouldn’t kill for their life. While we are made of the same DNA, we’re wired pretty differently. Let’s all be thankful that there’s a healthy bit of difference between Alabama and the rest of the world, or we’d all be in rough shape.


Paul does miss sweet tea. Rednecks have perfected that recipe.

Judgement Day

Tonight, I went through the vault and pulled out a goody for ya. This is a short story that combines one of my favorite things to talk about, entertainment, with religion, which I’d sooner go skydiving with a lead ballon than talk about in public.

This short is actually the basis for a script that I’m still working on, only heavily retooled. If the subject matter rubs you the wrong way, what can I tell you? I never thought people would be reading this blog in the first place. This can just be some light and fun Sunday morning bathroom reading material for anyone willing. I think it would be a great thing to watch before going to church, if your plan is to burn the church down. Also, if this seems like fan fiction, written solely to stroke Kevin Smith’s ego, you’d be correct. I’m a big fan of Mr. Kevin Smith and was on a big Dogma kick when I originally wrote this. 

Also if the viewpoint of the story feels confusing, it’s because I always intended for this to just be a scenelet. A piece of something bigger, and one day, it very well may be. Only with some major changes.


Judgment Day

      It was a night like any other inside Abraham’s Bosom, Heaven’s only gentlemen’s club. Hemingway tended bar, Ghandi was picking fights with townies, and Joan of Arc was limbering up on the second stage. The manna was flowing, and there was enough bread and fish to feed thousands. However, the real action inside Abraham’s Bosom isn’t up front, it’s in the back. Through the beaded curtain, past the jukebox and down the seemingly endless hallway stands Richard Nixon, guarding a blue door. Any attempt to pass that blue door was met with a growl and Nixon’s size 13 to your ass. However, this night was different, because the Boss was in town. He was currently holding a meeting, inside that very room.

     Inside the back room, sat a mahogany desk, with a high-backed, leather chair behind it. On the desk sat a name plate, with 3 letters printed on it, which spelt the name that the boss answered to. I can’t tell you exactly what the boss looked like, because  there was only a single bare bulb providing light. I can tell you that only He can pull off the robe and sandal look night in-night out, and look just as fresh and clean as He did in the Beginning.

     Across from him, sat a man who looked to be as full of life as one could expect, considering he was dead. It was Mad Max himself, Mr. Mel Gibson.  

     The two sat in silence, until Mel broke through, ”So, what should I call you? Big guy. Mr. All Mighty, G…”

     “Alpha, Omega. Whatever works. So, do you know why you’re here, Mr. Gibson?”

     Mel leaned back, with a shit eating grin plastered on his face. “I assume it has to do with some kind of medal or award ceremony of some kind. For service above and beyond, that sort of thing.”

    The boss sat back in his chair,  and took a long, hard look at the man sitting across from him. He studied Mel’s face, as if he was thinking back to the day he created Mel, out of nothing but a stale pretzel stick and some olive oil. “Now, why in My green Earth would I do that?”

     Deflated, Gibson gave his interviewer two puppy dog eyes and a playful grin. “I’m sure you probably saw a little movie of mine…The Passion of the Christ. I figured you were a fan.”

     The sound of sandals tapping against hardwood filled the room, as the boss bellowed, “A fan? Do the words international merchandise rights mean anything to you? How much money did you make off of my good name, while you paraded that film around. You would have marketed your own special line of Easter eggs, if you didn’t think it would hurt the overseas gross.”

     Visibly hurt, Mel leaned close, “Aww, c’mon mate. I donated countless dollars to the cause. For Christ’s sake, I built a church!”

     “In your backyard! I read in US Weekly that a man tried to pray in that church of yours, and you sued him for trespassing. Then, you fed him to your pet wombats. You’re a sick man, Mr. Gibson.”

     “So, you didn’t like the movie?”

     “I can’t tell you for certain, because I fell asleep two hours into the damn thing. What was with that 12 hour runtime, anyways? Were you trying to make a Showtime mini series? Why was the whole thing in Aramaic? Even I haven’t spoken Aramaic since the Renaissance!”

     Mel had endured enough. He slowly stood, brushed his pants off and turned away. “Everyone’s a critic.”

     “Sit down, Mr. Gibson. I’m the least of your worries right now.”

     At the Boss’s command, Mel sat. He could hear the sound of footsteps approaching from outside He heard Nixon arguing with somebody at the door. Next, came a loud thud, then the door swung open. The dim room was bathed in a pool of white light. The words that came next struck fear in the heart of the once proud Australian.

     “Jim Caviezel! Jim Freaking Caviezel? That guy wouldn’t last three minutes in Bethlehem. You’d think dying for all mankind would warrant me an A-lister! Instead, I get stuck with this no name. What happened? Was Carrot Top busy?”

     Mel rubbed his eyes for a second, then took a deep breath, “Mr. Christ? I take it that you weren’t entirely happy with how you were depicted in my film.”

     Jesus looked to his dad, throwing his hands in the air out of sheer frustration. “C’mon, dad. Please tell me I can smite this guy. I mean, c’mon. When me and the Disciples were walking up and down the desert, barefoot, by the way, the only thing that comforted them was looking forward to the movie. That’s what I told every last one of them. Just wait for the movie. Then we’d all feel justified. Instead, we got stuck with you.”

     Gibson choked back a lump in his throat and hurled out another question to his accusers. “With what I’m hearing, I doubt there’s anything I could have done to please you. Have you two ever liked any religious film?”

     At this question the Father and the Son replied in perfect unison, ”Dogma.”

     Mel was at a loss. “Dogma! You’ve got to be kidding me.”

     God looked ready to bomb this guy with a few plagues, right then and there. “Easy, Kangaroo boy. Dogma is the only film that’s even came close to telling our story correctly. Plus, it’s the only one that’s tried to add a little charisma to us and the church.”

     Jesus chimed in, ”Plus, it had Matt Damon. Now there’s a leading man.”

     God rolled his eyes and went back to giving Gibson the stink eye.

     Gibson was dumbfounded. “Got your story right? There was rubber poop monster in it. They cast you as a skee-ball playing woman. I can’t believe what I’m hearing.”

     God slammed his hand down on the desk “So, a few creative liberties were taken. And how do you know the poop monster ain’t real? I work in mysterious ways, remember.”

     Mel had heard enough. “If I knew I’d have to put up with this, I would’ve done Lethal Weapon 8 like my agent wanted, instead of doing your bidding. Just tell me one thing. Did you like any of my films?”

     God began to lay off, just a bit. “I’m more of a Bruce Willis guy, but the 33 year old virgin over there cried at the end of What Women Want.”

     Jesus was pissed to hear his secret shame announced like that. “You’ve got to be kidding me! You’ve forsaken me? Again!”

     Jesus gave Gibson and God a few more dirty looks, before storming out.

     Gibson’s spirits finally seemed to rise, “Kids, eh. What can you do? I had 12 little Aussies, myself.”

     God looked annoyed to still be suffering through Gibson’s presence. “Shut up, Gibson. Like I said. You owe me some serious royalty checks. But, since we’re in Heaven and money’s useless, there’s only one thing I can do to make you a believer.”

     A rubber poop monster burst through the blue door, grasping Nixon’s severed head. It set it’s sights on Gibson, proceeding to give him the worst beating ever seen in Heaven or Hell.  Pleased with his wrath, God got up and hurried out of the back room, hoping to catch the last few minutes of Joan’s set.

Captain Planet

You know what grinds my gears? Hippies. Oh, and obese people. I’m not saying if you’re “circus fat” and eat granola, you should die, I’d just rather you not be alive around me.

Tonight, a hefty, hefty, hefty messenger dropped off a box where I work. I removed what I needed from the box, and when I looked up, he was still there. I probably should have thrown my lunch out the door to get him to leave.

He asked if I wanted the cardboard box. I don’t have a strong preference on boxes, apparently this guy did. Maybe I was getting hosed on the deal, and the box was owned by Grover Cleveland’s dog groomer. If I’d taken this box to Antique’s Roadshow, some appraiser with a Snidely Whiplash mustache might look upon that box as if it was the 2nd coming. I didn’t care, it was just a box. On a scale of 1 to 10, I’d give this box a 4.7. If this box was a Baldwin, it would be Stephen.

Sorry about that, back to the story. I told the guy it was fine, I’d throw the box away. No muss, no fuss. I could not have been more wrong. He proceeded to look at me like I’d eaten all the candy from his Lucky Charms. (I assume this is a fat person’s nightmare) Senor Chunky said: “OK then, I’ll just take it back to our warehouse, we recycle.” Like I’m the bad guy in this equation.

Again, I dislike looking at larger people, so I nodded to Fudgey the Whale, and he waddled on home, with his fancy old box. Now I’m worried that he’s going to do horrible things to that poor box. Maybe he’s one of the dognappers from 101 Dalmations, and he’s going to toss a new litter of puppies in the box to take to Cruella. Maybe he’s going to smother the box in lard and do some voodoo with it, causing all of the world’s thin people to gain 40lbs. It’s all my fault, guys. My bad.

If you recycle, that’s awesome. I’m happy there are some do-gooders left, but don’t fool yourself into thinking that driving a beat up piece of cardboard back to your home planet makes up for the gaseous fumes you leak after your fifth trip to Del Taco. Earth has been around for a long time, she knows what she’s doing. Don’t make me feel like a loser for thinking a box is just a box.

For all the hippies and tubby mole-people I’ve offended by this post, please band together and form one giant blob to beat me up. I guarantee the ravages of anemia and diabetes will finish you off worse than I ever could. Oh, and I’ll be there when it happens. Playing the tuba.

Paul doesn’t feel as bad as he thought he would for writing this post. Actually, I feel pretty good. I just did some pull ups. Because I don’t weigh 400lbs.

Crapple to Apple

Photo Jan 19, 6 35 17 PM

Paul’s old Mac

Oh, porn had done some damage to Paul’s computer… It was so ravaged with malware that any webpage he clicked on looked like a bad Wikipedia page. Every other word was a link to some seedy porn site or knock-off retailer. It was time for him to put old Bessie to pasture…

Photo Jan 19, 6 52 30 PM

Paul’s New Mac

And upgrade to a brand new, 21″ iMac!*

Photo Jan 19, 6 52 45 PM

Myspace Angle

*But only after several attempts to reason with Craigslist hobbits who wanted to sell their old iMacs for $200 less than they paid 4 years ago. Ooh, you paid $800 for Photoshop… It’s called bootlegging and it’s terrible,  but I’m cheap and I’m only gonna be using the Adobe Suite to edit pictures of my cat falling asleep on her back, so f*ck you!

Ahem, if you’re in the market for a Mac, odds are it’s better to just go to the damn store. And as previously mentioned, we saw Kirsten Dunst while we were there. She worked with Sophia Coppola and starred in Eternal Sunshine, so… I was impressed.

The Fartist at Work

I decided to something a little special with my past two nights. Just for you guys. Because I love you. Come on, feel my love, feeeeel it.

There’s a short screenplay competition I heard about with a fast approaching deadline. I just so happened to have an a short idea. I wondered what would happened if someone wanted to be buried on the Moon. This is the beauty of living in Los Angeles. If you stare at a homeless person long enough, you can get all sorts of funky ideas guessing what they are thinking about. I decided I’d stay up Wednesday night and write as much of this short as possible, and guess what? I decided I would take photos so you guys can see what I’m doing in the wee small hours of the morning, while you normal people sleep.

So here it is, the creation of Mary Moon. First off, I’d need something to write in.

Scooby, reporting for duty

Scooby, reporting for duty

Next, I would need something to ensure I’d stay awake. Unfortunately, I was afraid Christy would murder me if I drank Mountain Dew 😦 So I was stuck with coffee brought home from work instead.

I'll be needing this

I’ll be needing this

And a picture for the ladies.

Make it Suntory time

Make it Suntory time

This is when reality struck.

Oh God, all these pages are BLANK!

Oh God, all these pages are BLANK!

Not to worry, Scooby can do anything! Shortly after, I had the coffee and the creative juices flowing. The first page was finished within 30 minutes. I deserved a treat.

First page celebratory banana sandwhich

First page celebratory banana sandwhich

What a fool I was. That first page is a chump page. Anyone can write one page. By the time I got to page #7 Scooby was singing a different tune.

I'm either thinking very hard, or licking my brain

I’m either thinking very hard, or licking my brain

It was at this point that I thought about taking up greeting card writing. 7 words and you’re done. Joseph Gordon Levitt had the right idea in 500 Days of Summer.

I want sleep!

I want sleep!

Eventually, I got back into the groove and wrote a scene that almost had me crying. I’m a sap, and also incredibly full of myself.

The artist is touched

The artist is touched

That moment lasted all of 4 minutes. Then, I really missed the coffee I finished hours before.

Scaring Chodie Foster away from keyboard

Scaring Chodie Foster away from keyboard

Wait! What’s that? The story is almost complete? I shall crush the last of this script with my mighty ham hands.

One page to go!

One page to go!

That last page was a killer. The Sun was rising, and my brain went to bed 45 minutes earlier.

4 hours later

4 hours later

Bwahahaha! Hard work pays off. After 4.5 hours, I’d finished the first draft of a 14 page script. In 2012 those 4 hours would’ve been spent watching Netflix and wondering why there weren’t more night owls on Facebook.

Bwahahaha, I am FINISHED! (with the first draft)

Bwahahaha, I am FINISHED! (with the first draft)

Tonight, I put the finishing touches on Mary Moon. It’s not perfect, but I like it. It’s one of those short scripts that is better left on the page. Why? Because there’s dialogue. Unless you’re dealing with professionals, never trust anyone to act in a short film. It’s just depressing, trust me. Here’s a taste of the real thing.

Mary Moon is the story of a young boy, Milo, who lives in a small town, without a friend in the world. Except his dog, Comet. They meet a wacky old hippy, named Mary Moon. (Yes, I did get the inspiration for that name from a 90s song. I have no idea what the song is called.) They quickly spark a friendship, and Mary tells Milo that she was born on the Moon. Milo’s suspicious, but he’s desperate for friendship, so he’ll believe just about anything. Mary gives Milo a glowing green rock, she claims is from the Moon.

Things get a little depressing after this point. As if letting some old burn out have a touching moment with a child isn’t depressing enough. You know what? I trust you guys. Consider this your late Hanukkah gift:


Mary Moon FINAL


Click on that and all your wildest dreams will come true.


Paul wants another banana sandwhich



JJ Abrams is not the Droid I was Looking for…

First things first, let’s address Christy stomping my oversized toes with last night’s Clint Eastwood post. I thought the purpose of this blog was pretty clear. She writes the interesting posts that actually bring people to the blog, and I write the odd film rants my mother won’t even read. She’s the talent, I’m Ringo Starr. She’s the lead singer, and I’m the guitarist with mystique. That’s the dynamic we agreed on!

I kid, I kid. There’s plenty of nonsense going on with Star Wars for everybody to get their shots in. Also, I’d kill to see Clint Eastwood poop his Depends once a fat nerd with back acne asks him what a Tonton is.

I knew this day would come. The day Lucasfilm got sold, I went to the nearest Disney Store, begging whoever would listen to keep JJ Abrams’s greedy paws off Star Wars. The term “scruffy nerf herder” may have been thrown about. My biggest problem with how Disney’s handled the new Star Wars films so far, is every decision they’ve made feels a little safe. Disney has the best story department on the planet with Pixar, so of course that’s where they would draft a writer. Personally, I thought Brad Bird should get the job, but Michael Arndt is Pixar’s Golden Goose right now, so it makes sense. Also, Arndt is the only Pixar writer who’s won an Oscar for writing a live-action film, so he had that going for him, which is nice.

JJ Abrams getting the directing job forced me to realize George Lucas wasn’t lying. He’s done. He’s taking his 4 billion in blood money, and running off to find a cure for his turkey neck. Once George’s heterosexual life partner, Stephen Spielberg, turned the job down, George Lucas could care less who directed. He’s passing the baton lightsaber off to Disney. JJ Abrams was the new head of Lucasfilm, Kathleen Kennedy, and Disney’s pick, plain and simple. They wanted some of that Star Trek voodoo to rub off on their revived franchise.

The one thing keeping me from storming the Magic Castle right now is that JJ is directing, not writing. Don’t let the fact that JJ Abrams’s name is attached to 87% of the shows on network tv fool you, that man is not a writer. My fellow nerds might be hoping that the new Star Wars could have a LOST feel to it, considering the JJ connection. We would be wrong. The beauty that was Lost had nothing to do with JJ, that was all the work of his Sith apprentices, Damon Lindelof and Carlton Cuse. I could have SWORN Damon Lindelof was going to get the Star Wars writer gig, but I think the geek venom that spewed all over Prometheus lost him the job.

Here’s what confuses me; if JJ was brought on solely for his visual style, which I believe he was, couldn’t they have found a better guy? Some may say that JJ Abrams got the gig because he’s a brand now. Disney doesn’t need brand recognition, they’re DISNEY. They are the Death Star. Personally, I felt that Guillermo Del Toro would have been the perfect fit for this job, but his sensibilities are a tad too creepy for Disney’s tastes. JJ Abrams is vanilla, Del Toro is mint chocolate. Disney’s only real option, outside of JJ, was Joss Whedon, and he’s signed on to make Avengers sequels until 2073. Disney already had him doing their bidding. If Disney really wanted to make a splash, they should have hired a true auteur for the job, someone who thinks a lens flare in a pitch black room isn’t artisitc, it’s just plain dumb.

Alfonso Cuaron should have gotten the Star Wars job. He’s done franchise work before with Prisoner of Azkaban, and knocked it out of the park. Children of Men is the 2nd most beautiful film I’ve ever seen, and it’s only 2nd to what he’s got coming next.  Shhh, don’t tell, but I’ve seen bits of his new film, Gravity, and once Disney sees what a REAL director can do with Space, Mickey Mouse is going to be kicking himself right in his red undies. Sadly, I won’t be able to see Gravity in theaters, due to our ban on watching films. However, I advise anyone with a working set of eyeballs to watch it, that film is a game changer.

Like I mentioned before, Disney is playing this one incredibly safe, which worries me. If these Star Wars films are just a cash grab, they might be fine, but if they want to make something great, they have to take risks. A safe movie will make money its opening weekend, but tail off eventually. A great movie will make money its opening weekend, and keep right on making money for the next 40 years. I have a feeling Disney will take a BIG risk with casting. I expect that the lead will be an unknown, or a relative unknown like Zachary Quinto as Spock. You don’t need Johnny Depp as a Jedi to sell this film. Expect some of Abrams’s normal cast to get work on these films. Jorge Garcia will be painted green and play Jabba. I don’t think JJ will be able to resist casting Josh Holloway as a member of the Solo clan. That man was born to fly the Millenium Falcon.  Disney is keeping the story for this film under wraps, but I’d personally like them to revolve around the third generation; Han and Leia’s kids, and Luke’s son. I always liked how the Star Wars books really let Han and Leia’s luck run out after Return of the Jedi. They had like 3 kids, and 2 of them didn’t live past 25. One even turned to the Dark Side and killed Luke Skywalker’s wife. Now THAT’s a movie. Probably a tad dark, though. Expect this movie to be the stuff theme parks are made of: a few thrills, chills and a big happy ending.

While I disagree with the director choice, the main thing I appreciate is that the new Star Wars film won’t release in 2013. I GET TO WATCH IT! That is my only hope.

Paul just blasted a womp rat. Actually, it may have been Christy’s cat.


Give Clint Eastwood a huge-ass budget to direct what’s basically an intergalactic Western! Sure, the cast will never leave Tatooine, and good luck getting him to understand, much less incorporate, lightsabers, but he’ll come in 120 million under budget, and the Werther’s Originals will flow like cheap wine (which will flow like cheap Ensure).

Besides, do you really want to know what $14 Lasik feels like? When JJ Abrams gets his hands on two suns, that’ll be 769 yottawatts (yodawatts, lol) of lens flare in yo face!


This message will self-destruct when Paul gets home.

[Accident! Accident, Paul! I didn’t mean to find out anything about Star Wars. You know I don’t care!]