Chapter 2, Page 5

Yesterday, I experienced a sweet bliss. And you can have this same feeling, too. At my local Hollywood video store, they are now renting entire episodes from TV shows. Apparently, there was a show on HBO called “The No. 1 Ladies’ Detective Agency” based on the novels by Alexander McCall Smith. It takes place in Botswana, Africa, and it was produced by Anthony Minghella, who directed my favorite movie of all time, “The English Patient.” The “No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency” is a true delight and I highly recommend it. It takes a little time to get use to since the characters seem too sweet and unnatural in their attitudes and behavior (unnatural as in a simple country outlook on life, not stressed out like our society or me in particular). But guess what! The characters really are sweet and charming. For real! The scene when Happy tells Precious of her mystery makes you feel like you are in the middle of a wonderful dream. This week’s topic: Movie remakes. I cannot imagine why Hollywood would remake any movie when there are many writers with creative ideas. (I know I sound bitter but many years ago I submitted a children’s story to Hyperion Books—a publishing company owned by Disney—and they rejected me and six months later, Disney did another remake of one of their own movies.) But if Hollywood does decide to do remakes, I don’t want a remake of a movie that had strong audience sentimentality like Bogart’s movies (Casablanca, the Maltese Falcon, African Queen) or True Grit or Seven-Year Itch or Little Big Man. We love these movies and the actors like we adore our beloved family members. However, there are a lot of very very old movies Hollywood could remake or movies that had a good plot but were considered a B movie back in the day and did not get the best studio resources. First up, I would like to see a new version of Uncle Tom’s Cabin. It was a good story, and recently on Turner Classic Movies I watched the silent version. (In case you are not aware, TCM does Silent Sunday’s, giving you a weekly opportunity to see those movies—we are very fortunate that TCM is doing this for us.) The actress Margarita Fischer played Eliza and I thought she did an amazing job (okay, a little bit too much swooning, but that was the style back then—Lillian Gish was famous for it.) I admit I have not read the novel and I understand the film took liberties of the novel. But you cannot deny the drama and human feelings that were evoked during the scene when Harry was taken away from Eliza on the paddleboat or the scene where Eliza and Cassy (who just learned Eliza’s secret) must fight it out at Simon’s Legree (Dang! What a great name for a villain!) Well, well, well. I just did some fact checking on the Internet and see that Uncle Tom’s Cabin was remade in 1987 with a very fine cast—Avery Brooks, Bruce Dern, Phylicia Rashad as Eliza, Samuel L. Jackson—so egg on my face, but I will rent the movie. I’m not stressing that Uncle Tom’s Cabin needs to be done with the setting of the Civil War period. Akira Kurosawa remade Shakespeare’s King Lear as Ran and Macbeth as Throne of Blood—both were very fine movies (When I was a substitute teacher, one entire summer I watched every samurai, Kurosawa, Toshiro Mifune and Japanese movie I could lay my hands on.) Throughout our world today human slavery is going on, Lisa Ling a renowned correspondent did an expose of girls in the slave trade in India. The following quote came from the Internet from a 2005 Fact Sheet from the U.S. Department of State. “According to U.S. Government estimates, 800,000 to 900,000 victims are trafficked globally each year and 17,500 to 18,500 are trafficked into the United States. Women and children comprise the largest group of victims.” My second runner up for movie remake: “The King and Four Queens.” This was a movie made in 1956 starring Clark Gable and Jo Van Fleet (a truly remarkable actress). He plays a con man who may or may not be friends with one of the outlaw brothers (three of which where killed and burned in the family’s barn by the lawmen; however, one brother escaped). The four outlaws were married to lusty women and unfortunately for the gals no one knows which brother escaped. The step-mother continues to believe the four gals were still married woman and will act respectable. And I forgot to mention, somewhere buried on the property was $100,000 stolen by the outlaw sons. So Clark Gable is the rooster among the horny hen house. (I verified on the Internet that the 1956 movie was the only one made). I really want to see this movie again and in particular remade with the likes of George Clooney and the female cast of the recent “The Women” (Annette, Jada, Meg, Eva, and Debra and Candice Bergen as the grieving step-mother). The only big change I’d make is to write the script with a little more sizzle. This week’s tip: Screenwriters! Think carefully if you do want to do a remake—make it better, not boring. In the “No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency,” Precious wanted to be a detective to catch the bad people who were bringing shame to her beloved country, Botswana. Screenwriters, you too, can write a movie that impacts so many people’s lives and might lead to positive changes in this world, too.

***Twink is upset for those previous pages full of self-reflection. I explained that Mr. Celebrity had to be positive that dumping Lydia was the best decision for him, and a great roller coaster ride always starts off at a snail’s pace.

…I know it sounded weird but it was as if Brown’s personality never truly left me.

“Good grief,” I muttered, “that was over twenty years ago.” And now I was forty and over the hill. I remembered the birthday card from my best friend, Buster. Inside, he quoted Victor Hugo: “Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.” I hope he was right. It still amazed me that Buster Drew—the coarse possessor of willing beauties—for once, was insightful and mature. He was in post-production of his first reputable movie with major studio backing. I’d known him for ten years and he was nothing like the bad boy image, and I was glad the world will see him as a gentleman and a first-rate producer. However, if any gorgeous gals were nearby, then he was exactly how the media portrayed him.

Hey! Why waste time bemoaning my fate when the luscious housecleaner eagerly waited to be romanced by me. But first, she must fulfill my neglected urges. Maybe, I should step out of my comfort zone and imitated Buster’s impersonal relationship in regards to women and sex. After all, it was just an ordinary housekeeper I’d soon be bopping.

I opened the bathroom door and stepped into Lydia’s bedroom. Suddenly, I sensed a presence directly behind me.

“Hey!” I yelled.

Before I could turn completely around, a fierce punch to my diaphragm crumpled me forward, which forced the breath from my lungs. Then a Heimlich-type squeeze expelled out whatever oxygen remained. I dropped down to the pale pink carpet, and then my body was shoved into the deep plush pile. A yellow box of plastic wrap protruded from under the bed. Strands of dark brown hair dangled in my peripheral vision as a knee was roughly jabbed into my back while my arms were painfully wrenched together like turkey drumsticks.

Wasn’t the housekeeping bitch thrilled to meet me?

After a few more seconds without oxygen, I experienced the sensation of entering a house on a brutally hot summer day and only seeing black and gray images, with color and light gradually vacating the premises and quickly replaced by despair and bad vibes.

With my chin still aching from the fall, I endured new carpet burns to stare into the floor-length closet mirrors to figure out what the hell was going on! I watched Toilet Paper Chick quickly hogtie my wrists using the rolled up plastic food wrap. It sickened me how easy she accomplished the task—a common expression one attributed to a “professional.”

Oh God!

She obviously performed this a few times.

I now recalled Lydia mentioning a stalker harassing her. Big deal! I never thought further into it because every celebrity had an undesirable fan base.

So this weird woman was Lydia’s stalker.

What was I supposed to say? Or scream?

Also, words required air to be voiced, and air was a natural resource I currently lacked. Plus, I’d need to recite from a Stephen King script to penetrate her contaminated mind and convince her to stop. In the mirror, her solemn purposeful eyes briefly met my panicky ones. She obviously had an important job to do and no time for chitchat.

My tiny shallow breaths now made me dizzy and nauseous. I closed my eyes for just a second to pull my senses together, but I soon felt myself slowly doze off. My over-heated body felt like if I didn’t get out of the Jacuzzi soon, I’d soon drown.

Drown! I snapped my eyes open.

Crazy lady gently rolled me onto my back, and I greedily gulped air even though every breath hurt like hell. My diaphragm stilled ached from where she struck me with the force of a drunken stuntman. My arms continued tugging at my shoulders from my body weight, causing me to arch forward. I feared my arms would soon be disjointed like when I busted up a chicken to fit it into a soup pot.

Man, the pain was a killer!

T.P. Chick appeared to hesitate. Will she change her mind and set her idol free or did she have something more nefarious planned? She gently straddled my groin area and deliberately not bear weight on me. The typical Monty Davis stunned expression of adoration returned; unfortunately, it only lasted seconds. Crazy Lady burrowed her nose into my chest, loudly sniffed my cologne and moaned pleasurably.

Okay, it still fed the ego of a dying man to know the ladies still dug him.

She lifted her head, and her eyes were still closed, but her greedy smile seemed full of genuine satisfaction.

Creeeeeepy!

She was demented and I was doomed.

She finally opened her blue-gray eyes, with her smile changing to a forced tightness, which dispersed the remaining warmth in the room and infused my bones with a rigor mortise chill.

She was getting scarier.

“Oh, Monty,” she cried.

My teeth started to chatter.

“Why did it have to be you?” she pleaded.

I reflexively shrugged, causing intense pain to my shoulders.

She shivered.

I was positive demonic hallucinations were commanding her to eliminate her beloved.

Me!

Dear God! Because my insecure psyche demanded total attention, I allowed a deranged stalker to overpower me so she could begin the initiation ritual to become “Satan’s” Number One Fan.

Chapter 2, Page 4

Sorry about missing the past few blogs. Last week, I sent my novel off for professional editing. Over a three-week period, I went through the entire manuscript. I used the editing corrections from the sample pages and saw my weaknesses (not staying in past tense) and I fixed them up. I also discovered that what I thought was Volume One, turned out to be Volume One and Two. My manuscript was too long, so it took me a day to decide where Volume One should end and Volume Two begin. The decision feels right. Also, it appears I’ve now written eleven volumes. This week’s writing topic: Historical reading. Since my manuscript was residing with another, I was now free for leisurely reading (which I rarely do when I’m working on something as I feel guilty for taking time away from my creation). At work, I continued reading “Life on the Mississippi” by Mark Twain. I’m enjoying it immensely. I have a small copy which I keep on me for reading at restaurants or in waiting rooms. Just the other day during my lunch break, I was reading a very scary chapter about back in the day in Munich, Bavaria, where it was the custom that a person must actually be dead before they buried him/her. Dah? I guess the grave robbers were finding scratch marks inside the coffin lid. Because of those occurrences, all the recent corpses were in a big room with a string tied to one finger and the other end of the string tied to a bell above. The watchman’s job was to stare at the corpses for movement and to listen for the bell to ring. I’m not a fan of scary material, but Mark Twain does tell some good stories. My lunch break was over and I finished the scary section. I then went to the bathroom and as I’m washing my hands, the bells start ringing. My heart nearly jumped out my chest, and then when I heard staff shout it’s a fire alarm, I started laughing. Coincidence? Synchronicity? I cannot say. I recommend “Life on the Mississippi” not just because of that story (Chapter 31) but because it is an interesting story. One of these days, I hope to travel the Mississippi River. I looked up on the Internet information about the Death Watcher in Munich, Bavaria, circa 1880s, and could not find anything. However, this would make a great novel or screenplay if someone would like to pursue it—who knows, Tim Burton or Johnny Depp may be interested in it. In “Life on the Mississippi,” I also read a family’s account of the battle of Vicksburg (imporant Civil War battle fought there with surrendering of the Confederates) and how during that 8-week siege, the citizens were pretty casual about being in the middle of the North and South. They would run to the caves depending on the sound of the cannons. This would also make an interesting story for a writer who doesn’t have a solid idea at the moment, also known as ICM (Inability to Create Magic). In the evenings, I’ve been reading poetry, specifically, “Changing Light,” edited by J. Ruth Gendler. The book is divided into the changes in the day—sunset, night, sunrise, etc; and the poems chosen deal with a specific topic. Very creative idea! There is some nice art work by Ms. Gendler. What I found interesting is the poems I was becoming attached to were by Rumi, who I feel writes longer versions of the Haiku. So, I got on the internet to learn more of Rumi, and wow did he have an interesting life. He lived from 1207 to 1273 and he was Persian, even though 3 countries claim him, but he is considered to be what is now known as Iran. He is well-known throughout the Middle East, and I’m kind of bummed out that we never knew of his poetry as I feel it is just as good as Angelou, Frost, Dickinson, Blake, Keats, Shakespeare, Psalms or L’Amour, etc. (Yes, Louis L’Amour wrote a book of poetry “Smoke from this Altar,” and a biography, “Education of a Wandering Man”—both were fantastic reads. At the end of “Wandering Man, he listed all the books he read given a particular year—very useful. (So Tough Guy, go to the bookstore and fork over some dough to be Literated.) If I had time, I would definitely write up a screenplay. But as you know, I have 11 novels to push, plus other novels and plays I’d like to do if I could quit my day job and focus on my writing all day. Also, if you live in my area, my serial killer skit, “Just Desserts,” will be performed by the MHS Drama Cub, 10/22, 10/23, and 10/24, at 7PM. I’m looking forward to seeing my words come alive. This week’s writing tip: Read about history. Current literature is great; it keeps us authors employed and the economy moving. But for my personal path of self-improvement, I enjoy reading historical fiction and nonfiction (they’re both sold at the bookstores). However, to me, it’s more enjoyable to read an author who was experiencing it first hand. For such a long time, I’ve wanted to read “Pliny’s Natural History—an account by a Roman of what the Romans knew and did and valued.” Also, historical novels are great, too. If you like creepy, then “Perfume: The Story of a Murdered” by Patrick Suskind, can teach you a lot about 18th Century France and especially interesting in how Perfumes were created back then…who knows, probably still today. But if you’re in a romantic mood, there is always the “Angelique” series by Sergeanne Golon where you’d learn about the Sun King, Louis IX and you’ll be exposed to a ton of other history—it’s a series don’t forget. And all writers should read poems on a regular basis—not just to connect to the poet’s feelings and passion and trying to figure things out, but also because you see and enjoy phrasing of words that are as delightful as eating the best chocolate ever. But more importantly, reading poems should be every writer’s daily affirmation of choosing the right word. By reading something entirely different, you might develop an idea for a poem, a short story, a novel or a screen play. Or take a trip somewhere because you read about it in a story. It’s all good.


*******All right! Mr. Celebrity will soon get some action. (For first time readers, please jump to the blog: Chapter One, Page One.)***


…I must be certifiably insane to perform on stage with actual people in the audience!

The worst cut of all was no fair maiden would wail in despair when dastardly Macbeth’s head is carried on a pole. Hell, Shakespeare never viewed Macbeth as a romantic lead. Why didn’t my friend Don Anthony pick Hamlet? Hamlet was a chick magnet and Shakespeare’s teacher pet. Mr. To Be or Not To Be was blessed with the ultimate universal appeal every human being could relate to: Doubts about doing the right thing. High school winter production, I acted the suffering, insecure Hamlet. My reviews proclaimed I was a natural on stage and should star in the next movie remake. Method acting was a breeze when your pathetic personal life matched Shakespeare’s greatest tragedy.

Twelfth grade! Yeech!

I hated thinking about my senior year, especially since I haven’t conquered my one shameful internal conflict. And because of my paranoia of anyone finding out about it, I turned down every persistent request from the alumni and reunion committees. My vow was to never step foot on my high school campus or be around those who knew me back then. My nightly prayers always included a P.S. of the tabloids never learning of her, either. I sighed. I may have matured since high school, but I never moved past to resolving that issue. After I fire Fremont, maybe I’ll discuss that tragic incident with my next therapist, Dr. Ruth.

I stared into the bathroom mirror. Inspection of my brown hair revealed further desertion of the troops and thinning of the army. Ugh, it was too soon to bring in the Rogaine!

I compelled myself to examine my face. Oh Lord, look at my eyes! The bags underneath were squeezing out every bit of blueness left in them! Ladies Home Journal will never again graciously describe these eyes as being sexy. This wasn’t fair! I ate healthy organic foods, I exercised with my personal trainer, Raul, several times a week, and more importantly, I didn’t smoke or used substances and enjoyed two glasses of wine each evening. I’m richer than…98-percent of the world population, but there was nothing I could do to halt the aging process. I refused to take the laser route. And face-lift, be damned; it was not natural—only narcistic women and insecure men did it. Truth be told, I was scared to try a simple chemical peel for fear of turning into a plastic surgery junkie like Fremont, who made quarterly pilgrimages to Dr. Bruno Swan, Hollywood’s A-list chop shop surgeon.

Man, I just turned forty but I still have not outgrown being Mr. Wishy-Washy—never making up my mind. If a deadline loomed, I allowed others to decide for me. If there was enough time, Stella’s guidance solved my every problem. The few times I made an important decision entirely on my own, immediately afterwards, I distrusted my choice and feared I’d get into an even bigger mess. This typically led to repeating the decision-making process until procrastination resulted in the situation taking care of itself. Decades of worry and paralysis not once provided an end result I was proud of or comfortable with. I sighed. I was exactly like good ol’ Charlie Brown.

Crap! I hate thinking about him and despised myself more for begging Mr. Ranger to cast me as Snoopy in You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. It was my last performance in high school, and I desperately wanted to play Snoopy so the visiting casting agents could see I had range to play zany characters, not just the romantic lead or the tragic hero. But Mr. Ranger said I’d make a perfect Charlie Brown, and unfortunately, I was.

Since then, no other acting job sucked me deeply into the nuances of characterization like the role of Good ‘ol Charlie Brown. And sometimes…I don’t know…sometimes. I knew I sounded weird, but it was as if Brown’s personality never truly left me.