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!

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.

Continuation of Script

I have this tendency to take what’s already written and do an overhaul.   Although I’m trying to get out of this pattern, it’s essential  an overhaul occurs.   Why?   Something else presses me…

Memories from my most recent job.   Although it was rather nightmarish (for four years, every day, nonstop), I’ve decided to take a satirical look at it.   The characters from the Descent script will be transferred over to this more personal story.

In the meantime, I will continue to post the script in the order in which it was written.   Here it goes —


               CHARLIE, unshaven and bug-eyed paces the room.   An unlit
               cigarette dangles in his hand.  He charges at Damian the
               moment he enters.

                         My God!  That woman with the nice
                         hair, didn't seem happy to see me. 
                         What's up with that?  Oh, she's
                         your lady friend you were talking
                         about.   How's everything going
                         with you and her?  

                         Just peachy.

               Damian pours some whiskey into a glass.

                         "Peachy"?  Great word.   Listen,
                         I've been up all night, man.  I
                         just figured it out. I should say
                         fuck it to comedy and write books.  
                         Adventures like Tolkien.   What do
                         you say?  I mean like fuck, Damian,
                         I'm not getting any younger.   You
                         know my birthday was on Tuesday. 
                         Turned thirty-one.  Not that you

                         Want any?


               Damian raises his glass of whiskey.

                                   CHARLIE (CONT'D)
                         Alcohol?  Are you crazy?  It's like
                         12:15.  What the fuck man?   Why
                         would I want to drink?  I barely
                         ate breakfast.  Just a tiny bowl of
                         Greek yogurt with bananas.   You
                         ever have that combo?   Greek
                         yogurt and bananas?   It's great. 
                         You should try it.

               Damian takes a seat at the head of the conference table.  His
               face stricken with horror.

                                   CHARLIE (CONT'D)
                         What?  You're scaring me.   Stop
                         scaring me.   You're looking at me
                         all weird.

                         Charlie, I need you to shut the
                         fuck up and sit down.

               Without hesitation, Charlie takes a seat.

                         Okay.  Hi!  What's up?

                         I'm dropping you.

                         What? I thought we were tight man. 
                         Aren't we friends?  What's this all
                         about?  You can't be serious.  How
                         is this possible?   

                         I'm dropping everyone.

                         You're not suicidal are you? 
                         Please tell me you're not suicidal. 
                         If you're suicidal you should get
                         some help. Lots of help.  
                         All sorts of professionals out
                         there that can help you with this
                         kind of stuff.  Tell me you're not

                         I'm not suicidal.  

                         Wooh!  Well, that's a relief.  But
                         you're dropping everyone?   Why?

                         It's time.   

                         Time?  Time for what?

               EXT. WATERFRONT - DAY

               The day couldn't be cloudier.

               Damian, in torn khaki shorts and a fluorescent tank top,
               drags a row boat on the muddied sand.  He heads toward the
               crystalline water. 

               The boat catches onto a hump in the sand.

               Damian tugs but falls forward.   He leaps to the front of the
               boat, lifts it from the hump.   Continues pulling the boat
               toward the water.  At the water's edge, he jumps in the row
               boat.  Paddles away.

               EXT. RURAL ROAD - EVENING

               The pavement's cracked.  Regardless, Damian, out of breath,
               saunters about.   Knapsack slung over his shoulder.   

               A dark figure runs across the street.

               Fatigued, Damian grabs a tree branch.


               Damian yanks his hand off the branch.  Blood pools up on each
               finger.  He licks the blood.