I figured it out. I just got my new cell phone. In search of the perfect mnemonic, I sat down and inspected my phone number. What kind of cool phrase might I assemble out of these letters and numbers? After a half hour of wrangling, I came up with exactly nothing. That is, nothing sensible, nothing cool, nothing that didn't sound like a license plate--pure nonsense phrases. Then it struck me. Why not pick one of these phrases and make it into something cool, say, write a hit movie based on that phrase? If I can't spell anything cool, I'll make it into something cool. I'll manufacture it's coolness. Now I'm set...and work has begun on a new screenplay called Hit Dogz...

This morning I got in my car, wheeled onto the 110 North and headed for Hollywood. On the way I listened to Ira Glass and the latest installment of This American Life. Today, he culled his entire show from the classified pages of the Chicago Sun-Times. One of the segments focused on a man whose black poodle, Isis, had been stolen. Isis had been destined for greatness. He had intended to breed her with a Shih-Tzu and raise a cluster of "Shih-doodles." But some mysterious woman allegedly made off with Isis, so he was advertising in the Sun-Times pleading for her return. Another segment followed an attempt to fuse an actual band out of several eclectic musicians, all of whom had advertised in the classifieds. They performed a fine rendition of "Rocket Man." The segment of the show that had me gripping the steering wheel in apprehension came in between those two. It focused on two people hunting for jobs. Neither had been very successful. They had their reasons, but they were having a tough time of it. One of them had been hunting for FIVE YEARS. And here I was, driving to Hollywood to meet with Llyr over breakfast at Canter's and talk about what it's like to get a job in Los Angeles. It unnerved me a little. But rather than take it as a bad sign, I understood that someone had just held up a picture: you react to this because this is only what you imagine yourself to be. But it's nopt you. It's that little demon who lives in your head. That demon feeds on despair. That little demon would like you to fail. That little demon's name is Morty. I met with Llyr. I ate scrambled eggs with lox. And a bagel. Then I went and hung out with Jules while she cleaned her dresser. We walked Penelope around the block (though I don't know how she fell asleep the way I pushed her little stroller roughshod over the heaving sidewalk.) And then I had a fine cup of coffee and a happy-face cookie with the smart and attractive Bobbi Kay.

First new post in a while. I dragged my feet on the blog so I could work on the parent website a little bit. Plus the impending move forces my attention elsewhere for the time being. This blog now seems to work in Netscape. There were some configuration errors. I chiseled into the code for a few hours, unearthed the flaw and chucked it. Font sizes are not uniform, and I can't yet explain why boldface does not display in Netscape, but at least it's there.

More from the CPE Journal, just to fill up space. I've been busy writing again. Characters are begining to take shape. IN a week or so, they'll be able to stand up on shaky legs and begin to move about on their own, presumably in search of a story... :: CPE Journal Part 6 :: Monday, May 2 1994 Still no music. Today I operate on some strange, mystical power that defies a lack of sleep. I've made three trips up the hill: one early-morning one to bring up pages from Lee & Jeanne, one for a lunch delivery from El Pollo Norteņo, and one other one to deliver supplies--and I'll probably have to go up again later. Susan called about All-Girl productions while I played with Mary's useless but fun fractal software. It really sounds like a porn outfit. Cristy's at a doctor's appointment. She should be back soon. Ho hum... The film seems to be in what Fred Caruso calls, "a holding pattern," awaiting Terry Khan's draft and then Tommy Lee Jones' approval/refusal. Wednesday, May 4 1994 Cristy is sick today. I've got a strange condition that feels like all my energy is preparing to draw back, like water retreating from a beach before a terrific wave. Only I don't know if that wave is coming. I think I just need some sushi. Two unusual coincidences. Last night: Larry gave me a script to read, Sex and Sunsets, based on the book by Tim Sandlin. I think it's the same book that Jamy (ex-fiance) was talking about adapting more than a year ago but couldn't because she was lacking the desire, interest and experience to do so. I'll have to tell her. She'll be intrigued. The second coincidence came moments later when Larry put a videocassette in the VCR. It was Jade of Death by Gilbert Po, an eight minute student film made back around 1990. I had seen this tape before. My friend, Mimi Dawson, an energetic, enterprising (and beautiful) film person came by the San Rafael, 2nd floor four-man suite (my flat) with her friend Gil to ask if they could watch the film on our nice sound system. Somehow, that film traveled a very circuitous route, dropping on doorsteps around Hollywood (if Gil was lucky) circulating through channels of contacts, friends and casual acquaintances until it ended up exactly here. Strange. Almost as strange as Wanda's sister living with Germaine Temple in New Mexico. Finished typing a new set of pictures for Maher (NIN tromping through my brain.) Punched holes in various treatments, coverage, etc. to be filed for Teresa. Answered the telephone periodically (Steve Breimer, Billy Blake, Tak Fujimoto, etc.) I have to pick up Joanne Duncan, the traveling notary, in front of the Art Museum. Seems her car is taking a leave of absence so her "travels" depend on her clients.