wilderworks

It happens about once a month. Someone else takes their turn at making a ground-breaking remark about my name of choice. That is, "Wilder." Their gem of wit usually implies that I could only live up to such a name by being an asshole - an unstable, irresponsible, violent, hard-drinking, hard-drugging, mass-fornicating, nincompoop, hellion, shark-kicker - or something like that. I always think, this demonstrates a lack of imagination on your part . I always think, this demonstrates the limitations of a tame mind such as your own . I always think, how dreary and routine your inner world must be . I always think, I am never buying you frozen yogurt . As best I can reason, these people must think "wild" means criminal, or rock-star, or lunatic. Or at least someone who shouts a lot. What they're describing is a fool, and wild things are not fools. A wild animal flourishes outside of domestication. They function, survive, and thrive. They find their own way. A fo

It was pointed out to me that most of the posts here were not open for comments. I made the default setting "no comments" during an unreasonable flash of self-defensiveness. Apologies. I started this blog primarily to speak with myself and get my brain writing, despite being seized up by lack of nicotine, but I also decided, perhaps impulsively, to share it with a small, trusted group. I've been thinking about it, and the best stuff ever made was fashioned through input from small groups of trusted persons (or by selective pressures on genetic traits). Denying comments on this blog might help my self-image, but it silences a source of potential challenge and contribution. And so, comments are welcome. They are encouraged. They can be blunt, smug, and even nasty. I have always been a believer that the best comedy bits are born when typewriters are flung in anger during its conception and gestation. It helps if John Cleese is flinging Steve Martin's typerwriter at T

Here's a little scene that will never make it into the final script, but which came to me while I was thinking through the possibility of a bath scene during that first night, when Jon is taking care of Maggie. Peace in Our Time, Jon... INT. BATHROOM - NIGHT Jon turns the faucet, adding more hot water to Maggie's cooling bath. She is lying back with a washcloth folded on her forehead, looking very wan. JON Do you think the hot water makes the cold water hotter, or you think the cold water makes the hot water colder? MAGGIE I think they make each other more middle temperature. JON That's the boringest possible answer. You totally science'd me. He stares at her. One would imagine he's contemplating sexy thoughts. But no. JON (CONT'D) People don't act much like they're 75% water, do they? MAGGIE I feel like I'm 99% snot. Does that count? JON Cold people make hot people even hotter, and hot people make cold people eve

Are very bad for my productivity.

Someone posted on Facebook: "Does anyone know if you can get acupuncture if you're allergic to nickel?" I was tempted to respond, "Don't risk it unless a medical professional is present - and an acupuncturist doesn't count." The placebo effect is a big part of healing. Finding ways to trigger it is not a bad thing. But taking risks with allergies, and infections, and paying someone handsomely in the process -- that shouldn't be acceptable behavior for a thinking person. As a result of this posting, I've been reflecting on the sham triumvirate: homeopathy, chiropractic, and acupuncture. I've been searching double-blind placebo-controlled studies on all three, trying to determine how confident I should be in my disdain. So far, it looks like I should be pretty confident. Now, I'm doing a movie with a flu-stricken character who believes in alternative remedies. Should I say something about these practices? Mock them

I walked around the apartment building hallway, listening to the rain. I ate some grapes and some Ritz crackers with peanut-butter. I watched about half of an episode of Quantum Leap. I haven't thought of a fun or funny way for someone to "come down" with serious flu symptoms, so I'm going to go to bed.

It's 2 o'clock in the morning: I can't make myself coffee. It's late, rainy, chilly, and Van Nuys: I can't take a walk. I've already had a shower: my skin would get itchy and dry. I've eaten more than I should: yet I can imagine enjoying some peanut-butter and Ritz. I could suck on honey-lemon cough drops, drink iced tea, and read John Hodgman from an old-fashion book, or perhaps read something else from my bourgeois Kindle. I could turn on the television, but that seems out-of-character. Are there still fascinating and strange things on television late at night?

Or "What's All This Then?" This blog exists to force myself to think through writing problems. In the past, when faced with a rusted-shut imagination, I'd step outside and have a cigarette. The chemical concoction, combined with a moment of solitary peace and metered breathing, would force my brain to focus and lubricate. Connections would be made. Ideas would stir up from the unconscious. The imagination would start spinning again. Alas, the physical consequences of this method are well known. It amounts to breaking a blockade by plowing the getaway car straight through the line of squad cars. Often, it works. But repetition is not advised.