Happy F’ing New Year

Just me and an eight ounce glass of seltzer.   Sweat seeps out my pores.   There’s the big looming question–Pretend to have fun tonight with a bunch of “friends” or go off somewhere far away, get wasted in a diner, fuck a disease-infested whore somewhere and then come back months later, bearded, speak only in Farsi and just sit there selling guns, crack anything to keep me afloat, put some money away as three months later my AIDS-infested baby will pop out of the bitch’s womb.  Hard choice if you ask me.

2013!  Woo-hoo!  I can hardly wait.   Here’s how I see it.   I’m gonna shit honesty.   Yeah, this might turn some of you off but really…do I fucking care?   I wasn’t put here to have everyone on this planet like me.   As a matter of fact, I could do a little toilet flushing.    Get in.  My fingers are riding the handle.   Go back to your homes, your countries, as your energy does not truly resonate with me.

Feels like eons that I’ve been taking care of one too many people.  How it felt as if I was walking on egg shells, fearful that any crack, I’d fall through a haunted abyss.  Mid-flight, an ogre would gobble pieces of me up.   As I’d take my last breath, that ogre would be the individual I was tending to.   How fucking convenient!

2013, what is it?  It’s the year of me deciding whether or not I got time for you or not.  Be prepared to wait a long fucking time because ladies, gentlemen and ogres in disguise, I’m taking care of myself first.  My health, my writings, my passions, my everything.  Call me a narcissist, my middle finger will be waiting for you.

So, happy fucking new year!


Yesterday’s snow induced somewhat of an intense lethargy.  Yes I went to crossfit at 5:30, however, all the other parts of the day was filled with total laziness.   Today, the leftovers–a tiny headache.   Since this is so,  I’ll say nothing more and instead post the next installment of the script.

               INT. LOG CABIN - MORNING

               Seated on the bed, Damian watches Charlie freshen up.

               Charlie makes eye contact with Damian.


                         I don't know.  You tell me.

                         You're staring.  You need
                         something.  More wine?   Oh sorry. 
                         We ran out of it.  Maybe some feta
                         cheese.   Woah, oh God, forgive me.  
                         That's all been eaten.  What could
                         you possibly want?

                         How are you feeling?

                         You really want to know how I'm
                         feeling?  Aww.  You care.   Well, I
                         feel pretty fucking humiliated and

                         I'm sorry.

                         Yeah, okay.

               Charlie opens the cooler.  Pulls out a dozen eggs.

                                   CHARLIE (CONT'D)
                         We need to do something with these

                         We can have an egg fight.

                         I was thinking more like deviled
                         eggs.  Got any paprika?

               Damian jumps off the bed.  Lands atop Charlie.  Punches him
               the face.

               Will dashes in.  Face flushed.   

                         You have to stop.

                         Why?  The fun's just beginning.

                         I'm serious.   They're coming.


               Less than five nautical miles from shore, the speed boat

               Damian and Will duck behind a shrub.

                         The boat's not headed in our

                         Sure it is.


               The speed boat veers to the right.


                         I have an idea...but you've gotta

               EXT. BAY- MORNING

               Damian slows his rowing down till he sees the speed boat
               anchored to the docks. 


               Damian ties his row boat to the speed boat.  Climbs on board. 
               Opens cabinets and drawers.  Finds nothing. 

               Someone clears her throat.

               Damian looks up.  Finds Kate, her eyes welling up in tears.

                         It's Aunt Bella.

                         What about her?

                         She's not well.

               Damian jumps atop the docks. Holds Kate's shaking arms.

                         How can she not be well?  She seems
                         fine.  I was just with her this

The Quiet After Christmas

The day after Christmas can be eerily quiet.   Since I was raised Jewish, the question of what happens in a Christmas-celebrating household arises.   In the homes where alcohol’s permitted, I assume there’s much drinking…perhaps under the Christmas tree.   There’s the game, How Far Under The Christmas Tree Can You Get.   Kids are excluded from this game as they aren’t allowed to consume alcohol (maybe in some households kids do drink…yikes!).   Once under the tree, someone measures the distance.  There’s an art to getting out from underneath the Christmas tree.   Can it be done without ruining the tree?  Do any baubles fall off?   In a drunken stupor, has tinsel accidentally been torn off?

In the sober homes, I see adults and children praying obsessively.   Maybe the men remember their drunken days…the days when they considered themselves “heathens”.  They go out in the freezing cold, stand behind an evergreen, a much larger version of their Christmas tree  (undecorated, of course), shivering as they light up a cigar.   Every now and then, they check to see if their mothers are peering through the windows, “Oh, where did Johnny go?   It’s his turn to lead the prayer!”

On December 26th, these two groups, the alcoholics and sober Christmas celebrators, meet up for a tug-of-war.   They literally take a thick rope, one that mid-game could rip skin off if careless, and tug.   They do it over a raging fire.   “Doesn’t matter who wins,” yells Jesus.  “I love you all.”  The tuggers can’t hear.  They’re too busy trying to win.   Eventually one group, the alcoholics, of course (not because they’re alcoholics, ethically speaking, but because the blood-alcohol content is so high.  They think only of sleeping or grabbing another bottle of rum), fall near the raging fire.   No flesh burned!  The sober Christmas celebrators jump up, scream so loud that even Jesus has to place His hands over His ears.

Their breath recovered, the two groups visit a warm eggnog push-cart, run by some Egyptian fellow.   They care little for his name.  “What a nice man,” they all agree.   “So what if he’s Muslim.  He’s handsome.  He’s always laughing.   It’s clear he cares about everyone.”   Empty cups, the two groups hug, part ways, head into their proper households.  And so maybe, just maybe, this is why it’s always so quiet the day after Christmas.


Several years ago, I wrote the beginning of a screenplay.   Maybe the total page count went to eight.    All the scenes were pure description and action.  The action, though, was of a woman bathing.  She then washed her hands.   It then cut to a man walking on sand.  Very dull action.  Not sure what I was thinking back then.

The excerpt I’m posting today has one short action scene, almost reminiscent of a Charlie Chaplin film.  Prior to this scene there’s a moment that segues into a flashback.   This moment can easily be interpreted as sexual.  I can tell you it isn’t.  And no, Will is not pregnant…just in pain.

               INT. LOG CABIN - MORNING

               Damian closes the battery cover on the cassette player.  
               Glances over at Charlie whose curled up on the floor, snoring
               a way.   A grin takes over Damian's face.  He pushes play. 
               Mozart's Requiem in D Minor broadcasts.


               A fishing pole stands up right, lodged in the sand.   Will
               yawns and lies down.   Stretches.   Rubs his belly. 

                                                          MATCH CUT TO:

               BEGIN FLASHBACK

               EXT. SCHOOLYARD - DAY

               JESSICA, a bright-eyed curly-haired girl bundled in winter
               gear, rubs Will's belly.

                         Does it feel weird?

                         Feels normal to me.

               Jessica withdraws her hand.   

                         It hurts.

                         Go see nurse Kate.

                         Why do you call your mother, "Nurse
                         Kate"?  That's creepy.

               END FLASHBACK


               Mozart's Requiem in D Minor intensifies. 

               A sharp bend in the fishing pole.  Will crawls over to it.  
               Lifts it out of the sand.   Tugs the pole side to side.   The
               bend in the pole intensifies.   

               Will digs his feet deep in the sand.  Struggles with the
               strength of whatever might be caught on the hook.  Sweat
               drips down his arms.  Looses grip on the pole.   It flies
               into the water.  He goes after the pole but it moves too

               Will kicks the water, screams and shouts.   He stops short. 

               In the distance, a speed boat approaches at a rather rapid

               Will runs out of the water, hides behind a shrub.  

               The speed boat continues straight on course.

               Will runs into the woods.


Things haven’t exactly been easy lately.   Yesterday was the end of the world, apparently.   What the shit was that?   Talk about tone setting, my God!  Imagine this, you wake up, stretch, do your morning prayer, head down to the kitchen, pour yourself some orange juice, pop on NPR only to hear, “…the world will end on December 21st, 2012.”   Excuse me?    End?   Really?

I don’t care what belief system one has, this end of the world crap had to have affected everyone in some form another.  Looking back, I was a lunatic.  Read the posts from the last few days.   Bitching and moaning.   Deleting them crossed my mind.   My greater self vetoed that idea.    The whole purpose behind this blog is to show my vulnerability.  It’s real.   It’s who I am.   I think of these posts as excerpts from some classical sonata, where all the emotions are represented in some form.

Speaking of classical music, here is the next segment of the screenplay–

               EXT. RURAL ROAD - DAWN

               In exercise clothes, Damian leaps over the cracked pavement. 
               Continues his morning run.   He stops suddenly.

               In the distance, a hunched over silhouetted figure canes its
               way through the broken road.  It's Bella.


               Bella squints, clearly confused by the distant voice.


               Damian makes his way over to Bella.

                         Mrs. Argrove, what brings you here?

                         Bird watching.   There was this
                         most unusual bird. 
                         Looked like a flamingo but it was
                         turquoise.  So darn pretty.   Well,
                         a dog bark must have scared it. 
                         Flew over here.  I had to follow

                         Just you?

                         Just me?  Of course!  Who else? 
                         Thomas has been dead for twelve

               Bella retrieves a handkerchief from her pocket.   Blows her

                         Sorry, I didn't mean...

                         Got this damned cold.   I've been
                         meaning to tell you.  Be wary.

                         No need to worry.  My immune system
                         is as strong as an ox.

                         Phaw!  Not talking about your
                         immune system.  Talking about some
                         lady.   She came into the store.  I
                         sold her a red dress.

                         Mrs. Argrove, that's not a...

                         Red because of the devil.   That's
                         right.  She's got the devil in her. 
                         Been praying ever since I saw
                         what's in that behemoth's eyes.

               Clearly amused, Damian places his hand on Bella's hands.

                         Mrs. Argrove...

               Bella yanks her hand out from underneath Damian's.  She
               trembles.   Her dentures nearly falling out of her mouth.

                         She's found you!  I can feel her in
                         your essence.

                         You insist she's a woman.

                         Because she is.  A demon woman. 
                         Come with me.

               INT. STORE - MORNING

               Damian shifts about uncomfortably as Bella pulls out boxes of

                         Where is this?   I just saw this a
                         few days ago.

                         What are you looking for?

                         It's this cassette.  You like

                         Yeah, I guess.

               Bella beams a grin.  Puts on the radio.  Mozart fills the

                         Oh, Bastien and Bastienne.  One of
                         my favorites.

                         Never heard it.

                         Well, you're hearing it now.  Ever
                         dance to opera?

                         I rarely dance.

               Bella holds out her hands.  Damian grabs them.  The two swing
               side to side.

                                   DAMIAN (CONT'D)
                         Mrs. Argrove, this is really

                         Isn't it?  Listen to that voice! 
                         How beautiful!

                         It's quite beautiful.  Listen,
                         Will's alone with that woman you
                         speak of.

               Bella gasps.  Breaks away from Damian.

                         Is he?  Well, we need to get you
                         home.  First...

               Bella turns back toward the boxes of cassettes.   Grunts as
               she pulls out a pile of them.  Shuffles through them.

                                   BELLA (CONT'D)
                         Ah, here it is.  Take this.

               Bella hands Damian the cassette.

                         What's this for?

Bermuda Triangle of Communication

I need a documentary filmmaker to follow me around.   Nobody in their right mind would believe some of the shit that goes down. The gist of it…there’s a Bermuda Triangle of communication, where emails and phone calls just obliterate.   Some examples.   The one minute plus film I made a few days ago, I had submitted to something called Artist Strike.   Thrice, they were contacted but heard nothing back.   Not even a simple, “Thank you for the submission but this doesn’t match what we’re looking for.” Another example, I’m in the process of producing a video for a local sports supplement store.   Put an ad on craigslist for a bodybuilder.   It’s been up for several weeks now.  Finally, one individual emailed me at four in the morning with a photograph.   Looked perfect, so I responded.   He, like all my correspondents, disappeared.

This is no longer angering to me.  It’s totally absurd.   Since I can’t film this myself (without some odd contraption, that I don’t have, attached to my body) I urge a documentary (or mockumentary) filmmaker to contact me.   Email me at sazerfilms@gmail.com.

After The Mania

“What’s up with Johnny?  Don’t ya know he’s got that awful voice when he’s in that terrible mood I mean my God, what’s gonna happen to him?  I swear, Margaret, sometimes I wanna take that fucking kid and drown him.  Just take that worthless bastard and shove his head in the fucking toilet bowl and then at the very last minute, right before he turns blue, release him.  Smack him around and shit.  What kind of fucking demon is he?  Making a fortune off of wounded souls!  Ah shit, he’s at it again.  JOHNNY!  SHUT THE HELL UP OR I’LL RACE IN THERE AND GIVE YOU A SMACKING!”

Ben kept at it all night, irritating Margaret as she dozed off.  Shook her.    Trembled in the bed, fearing that Johnny would charge into the bedroom, kitchen knifes displayed like a violent deck of cards.    Smash!  Right in the neck.   No, he wasn’t gonna face that kind of slaughter.

“Will you knock if off, Ben!   Please.   I wanna get me some shut eye.  Can’t a woman get some shut eye around here?  Between you and Johnny, I’ll have to rent a hotel room.”  She rolled over, grunted, leaving Ben awestruck.

“She never mouths off to me.   Wow, she really must be tired.   Fine, I’ll make my way through the frigid corridor and sit beside  Johnny’s door, pounding on it after ever sharp-piercing decible.”

In the morning, indents on Ben’s back.   He slept all weird.   Dreamed about Johnny and Margaret having an affair…

No!  The italicized words are shit!  Total fucking shit!   There was a streak of mania riding through my brain on the way home from the gym.  They were dangerous.  This here is Hollywood nonsense.   Something I’ve never experienced before.  An affair!  Shit in my last relationship, a million years ago, I encouraged my ex-girlfriend to fool around with her band mate.   I wanted to watch.   Eventually, she broke up with me.   Claimed that when it came to love she didn’t “know what it meant anymore.”  They did fuck. Must have been good.  Now they’re married with a kid, maybe two.